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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notat/Notas  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiquat 


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copy  which  may  ba  bibllographically  uniqua, 
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n 


n 


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Colourad  covara/ 
Couvortura  da  coulaur 


I     I   Covara  damagad/ 


Couvartura  andommagAa 


Covara  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  raataurte  at/ou  pallicuMa 


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La  titra  da  couvartura  manqua 


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Encre  de  coulaur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


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toth 


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aont  indiquAa  ci-daaaoua. 


I     I  Coloured  pagea/ 


n 


Pagea  de  couleur 

Pagea  damaged/ 
Pagee  endommagiea 

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|~~|  Peges  damaged/ 

I — I  Pagea  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

I — I  Pagea  diacoiourad,  atained  or  foxed/ 

I     I  Pegea  detached/ 

r~1  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  variea/ 

I      I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I — I  Only  edition  available/ 


The 
poss 
oft! 
fiimi 


Orig 
begi 
the  I 
sion 
othe 
first 
sion 
or  ill 


The 
shall 
TINl 
whic 

IVIap 
diffe 
entir 
begii 
right 
requ 
metl 


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Ce  document  est  filmA  au  taux  de  rAduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

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to  the  generosity  of: 

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d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  chuque  microfiche,  selon  le 
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required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


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Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
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de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
ot  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'Images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1  2  3 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

l^€c^  y^yTTic^ 


2Di)e  Hitier^iue  iitterature  fern'cfl; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 
THE  TRAVELLER 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


WITH  A    BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH,  INTRO- 
DUCTIONS AND  NOTES 


t^cKittfrsi^ePreag 


HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

Boston :  4  Park  Street ;  New  York  :  85  Fifth  Avenu<> 
Chicago:  378-38S  Wabash  Avenue 

(€bc  J^iticrieiiOc  press  CamUridge 


/v;  J. '.  ^  I. 


V7 


2629()2 


Cr^/^''C/. 


/^'. 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFP^LIN  &  CC» 

.<4tf  righi&  reserved* 


CONTENTS. 


BiO(}RAPHicAL  Sketch  ob'  Olivkk  Goldsmith     ...  5 

The  Desertkd  Villl.v«e. 

Introductory  Note .IJ? 

Dedication 17 

The  Deserted  Village J<> 

The  Traveller  ;  or  a  Prospect  of  Society. 

Introductory  Note lij 

Dedication 41 

The  Traveller 44 

Edwin  and  Angelina:  A  Ballad. 

Introductory  Note «...  63 

I^]dwin  and  Angelina 66 

Retaliation. 

Introductory  Note 72 

Retaliation 74 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog      .        .        .        .82 

An  Elegy  on  the  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize  84 

The  Clown's  Reply 86 

Stanzas  on  the  Taking  of  Quebec 87 

A  Description  op  an  Author's  Bed-Chamber  .    •   .        •  88 

Familiar  Quotations  from  Goldsmith  .        •       •       •       •  89 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH   OF  OLIVER 

GOLDSMITH. 


Oliver  Goldsmith,  the  son  of  a  humble  village 
preacher,  was  l)()in  at  tlie  jKirsonage  in  Pallas,  the 
property  of  the  Edgeworths  of  Edgevvorthstown,  in  the 
county  of  Longford,  Ireland,  November  10,  17*28. 
He  died  in  London,  wept  over  by  Johnson,  J^urke, 
Reynolds,  and  Garrick,  Aju-il  4,  1774,  live  months  over 
his  forty-fifth  year.  Bi  tvveen  t\u)  obscure  Irish  village 
birthplace  and  the  monument  in  Westminster  Abbey 
stretched  a  career  which  was  lialf  in  clouds  and  half 
in  sunshine,  a  lainbow  of  tears  and  smiles.  He  had 
no  advantages  of  birth  other  than  the  priceless  one 
of  a  simple-liearted  father,  ''  passing  rich  witli  forty 
pounds  a  year,"  who  lives  again  in  the  preacher  of  the 
"  Deserted  Village  "  and  more  minutely  in  the  hero  of 
the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  His  life  to  outward  seem- 
ing; was  a  series  of  blunders.  He  was  tossed  about 
from  one  school  to  another,  learning  many  things 
which  somehow  seem  more  in  his  life  than  Latin  or 
Greek.  He  learned  to  play  the  flute,  and  he  fell  in 
love  with  vagrancy,  or  rather  the  vagrant  in  liim  was 
carefully  nourished  by  an  unworldly,  unsophisticated 
father,  a  merry-andrew  of  a  teacher,  and  by  fickle  For- 
tune herself.  An  uncle,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Contarine,  was 
the  prudent  man  of  the  family,  always  appearing  as  the 
necessary  counterpoise  to  prevent  Oliver  from  flying  off 


6 


BIOGRAPHTCAL   SKETCH. 


into  inueovenil.  wamlciiiif]^.  By  his  advice  and  help 
the  hid  passed  from  his  sciiools  to  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  i)erhaps  a  nee<lful  discipline,  but  certainly  a 
harsh  one  ;  for  tliere,  where  one  might  look  for  genial 
surroundiniis  to  one  afterward  to  become  a  master  in 
literature,  the  luckless  youth  was  to  find  new  trials  to 
his  sensitive  spirit  and  to  have  his  compensation  in 
pleasures  (piite  unprovided  in  the  college  scheme.  His 
poverty  compelled  him  to  tak(;  a  menial  position,  he 
had  a  brutal  tutor,  and  after  he  had  been  a  year  and 
a  half  at  college  his  father  died,  leaving  him  in  still 
more  abject  i)overty  than  before.  He  wrote  street 
i)allads  to  save  himself  from  actual  starvation,  and 
sold  them  for  five  shillings  apiece.  In  all  this  murky 
gloom  the  lights  that  twinkle  are  tlie  secret  joy  with 
wliich  the  poor  ])()et  would  steal  out  at  night  to  hear 
his  ballads  sung,  and  the  quick  rush  of  feeling  in 
which  he  would  use  his  live  shillings  upon  some  for- 
lorn beggar,  whose  misery  made  him  forget  his  own. 
Once  he  ran  away  from  college,  stung  by  some  too 
sharp  insult  from  liis  tutor,  but  he  returned  to  take 
his  degree,  and  at  the  end  of  three  years,  caj'rying 
away  some  scraps  of  learning,  he  returned  to  his  mo- 
ther's house. 

There  for  two  years  he  led  an  aimless,  happy  life, 
waiting  for  the  necessary  age  at  which  he  could  qual- 
ify for  orders  in  the  church.  He  had  few  wants,  aiuJ 
gayly  shared  the  little  family's  small  stock  of  provision 
and  joint  labors,  teaching  in  the  village  school,  fishing, 
strolling,  flute-playing,  and  dancing.  They  were  two 
years  that  made  his  Irish  honie  always  green  in  his 
memory,  a  spot  almost  dazzling  for  brightness  when 
Jie  looked  back  on  it  from  the  hardships  of  his  Lon- 
dou  life.    When  the  two  years  were  passed  he  applied 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


a 


Co  the  Bishoj)  for  orders,  but  was  rejiKited  for  various 
rf^asoiiM  accord iiii;'  to  various  authorities,  but  tlie  most 
sufficient  one  in  any  case  was  his  own  iniwiilin|»ness  to 
take  the  stcj)  urj;ed  upon  liini  by  friends,  lie  was 
sent  by  his  unch;  to  begin  the  study  of  law,  but  the 
fifty  pounds  with  which  lie  was  furnished  were  lost  at 
play,  and  the  vagabond  returned  forgiven  to  his  nucha's 
houie.  He  had  visions  of  coniiiig  to  America  which 
fortunately  never  passed  int(»  waking'  resolution,  for  it 
is  to  be  feared  there  wouhl  havt;  been  small  likelihood 
of  his  blossoming  into  literature  on  tins  side  of  the 
water  in  the  days  of  ante-revolutionary  flatness. 

Medicine  was  the  next  resort,  and  (loldsmith  was 
sent  by  his  unide  to  Edinburgh.  Although  the  title 
of  doctor  has  become  familiarly  connected  with  his 
name,  it  is  very  certain  that  he  did  not  acquire  the 
degree  in  Edinburgh,  but  afterward  in  a  foreign  uni- 
versity ui)on  one  of  his  wanch'rings.  Few  traditions 
remain  of  his  life  at  Edinburgh ;  three  c**  four  amus- 
ing letters  were  written  thei.ce,  but  the  impression 
made  by  t.  em  and  by  such  gossip  as  survives  is  that 
he  was  an  inimitable  teller  of  humorous  stories  and  a 
capital  singer  of  Irish  songs.  His  profession  of  medi- 
cine, however,  gave  a  show  of  consistency  to  his  pur- 
pose of  travel  on  the  continent,  where  he  persuaded 
himself  and  his  friends  that  he  should  qualify  him= 
self  for  his  professional  degree.  In  point  of  fact  he 
spent  his  time  in  a  happy-go-lucky  fashion,  wandering 
from  place  to  place,  and  singing  a  song  for  a  sixpence^ 
The  philosophic  vagabond  in  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field" is  but  a  transparent  mask  for  Goldsmith's  own 
features  at  this  time.  "  I  had  some  knowledge  ol 
music,"  says  that  entertaining  philosopher,  "with  a  tol- 
erable voice ;  I  now  turned  what  was  once  my  amuse 


8 


jiiOiJHA  rnrcA l  sketch. 


Ineiit  into  a  ^H'csi'iit  nii'iiiis  of  snbsistrnce.  I  passed 
among  the  liuiJiilrss  pcsisants  of  Flanders,  and  among 
sneh  of  the  Fmich  as  wne  poor  *.*n(Mi«;'h  to  b(^  \i*vy 
merry;  for  1  evt'r  found  tlu;ni  sprightly  in  ]>roportion 
to  their  wants.  Whrn(  ver  1  appi'oat'hcd  a  j)easant's 
house  towards  ni<;htfall,  1  played  out;  of  my  niost 
merry  tunes,  and  that  procaired  me  not  only  a  lod«;in^', 
but  subsistence!  for  the  next  day.  I  onee  or  twiee  at> 
tfmi)ted  to  play  for  peojde  of  fnshinn,  but  they  always 
thou«'ht  my  perfo!*manee  (xlious,  nnd  never  i"*wardeu 
me  even  with  a  triHe."  Althou;j;h  (loldsmitlTs  medi- 
eal  knowledi»e  was  scareolv  iiu^reased  by  Ids  eontinen- 
tal  experience,  lie  was  wittin<;ly  or  unwittingly  adding 
dally  to  that  knowledge  of  men  and  natinc  whieb 
shines  throngh  bis  lightest  wiitings.  *"  The  Traveller  " 
is  a  <listillation  of  these  wanderings. 

lie  returned  to  England  in  17r)0,  after  two  years  of 
desultory  life  on  the  eontinent,  and  landed,  we  are  told, 
v/itbont  a  farthing  in  bis  ])oebets.  lie  lived  by  book 
and  by  crook,  serving  in  an  apotbeeary's  sbop  in  a 
bumble  ea])aeity,  acting  as  tutor,  it  .'s  sad,  under  i; 
feigned  name,  and  living  the  while,  as  he  afterward 
declared,  among  beggars.  Then,  falling  in  witb  an 
old  friend,  and  getting  some  little  assistance,  for  Gold- 
smith seemed  always  onti  of  tbe  open-banded,  ready  to 
receive  and  ready  to  bestow,  be  became  a  ]diysician 
in  a  bumble  way,  struggling  for  a  living  in  doctoring 
tbose  only  one  degree  richer  tbar*  bimself.  By  a  curi- 
ous coincidence,  one  of  bis  ])atients  was  a  printer  work- 
ing under  Samuel  Richardson,  printer,  and,  wbat  i^ 
more,  autbor  of  "  Clarissa."  From  a  bint  given  by 
this  man,  Goldsmitb  applied  to  Richardson  and  was 
given  occupation  as  a  proof-reader.  Then,  falling  in 
witb  an  old  schoolfellow  wbose  fatber  kept  a  school 


niofiu AriiKwr,  skiihh. 


Mlg 


u 


ill  PtM'kh.'itn,  ( ioldsinitl)  Itccairir  .'in  iihIkm',  Mini  a  iiiisor- 
ul)lr  tiiiM*  li«'  Iia«l  nl'  it.  *•  Ay,"  nirs  (irnry;r  Prim- 
rose's roiisiii  t<>  liiiii,  ill  (lir  ''  Vicar  of  WakcfioM," 
"' this  is  ii\(!«M'(l  a  vory  pretty  rarcer  that  has  Ixmmj 
oh(*ck(»(l  out  for  yon.  I  liavc^  Ihmmi  an  nshcr  at  a  hoard 
ing-school  myself,  and  may  I  die  hy  an  anodynes  noek- 
hice,  hut  I  had  rather  he  an  nnder-turnkey  in  New- 
gate. T  was  n|>  early  and  late  ;  I  was  hrow-heat  by 
the  mast«*r,  hited  for  my  n^ly  faeci  hy  tlu^  mistn'ss, 
worried  hy  the  hoys  within,  and  never  permitted  to 
stir  out  to  meet  civility  nhvoad.  But  ai'e  you  sure  you 
are  fit  for  a  school  ?  Ii(^t  me  examine;  you  a  littU;. 
Have  you  been  hred  apprentice;  to  the  business?  No. 
Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school,  (^an  you  dress  the 
boys'  hair?  No.  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school. 
Have  you  had  the  smallpox  ?  No.  Then  you  won't 
do  for  a  school.  (\in  you  lit;  three  in  a  bed  ?  No. 
Then  you  will  n(;v(;r  do  for  a  school.  Have  you  got  a 
good  stomach?  Yes.  Then  you  will  by  no  means  do 
for  a  school.  No,  sir,  if  you  are  for  a  genteel,  easy 
profession,  bind  yourself  seven  years  as  an  a])pr(Mitico 
to  turn  a  cutler's  wheel,  but  avoid  a  school  by  any 
means."  In  the  same  conversation  the  city  cousin  ad- 
vises George  to  take  up  authorsiiip  for  a  trade,  and  it 
was  indeed  by  the  humblest  entrance  that  Goldsmith 
passed  into  the  domain  where  afterward  he  was  to  be 
recognized  as  master.  Griffiths,  the;  bookseller,  dined 
one  day  at  the  school  where  CJoldsmith  was  usher. 
The  conversation  turned  upon  the  '•  Monthly  Review," 
owned  and  conducted  by  Griffiths.  Something  said 
by  Goldsmith  led  to  further  consideration,  and  the 
usher  left  the  school  to  board  and  lodge  with  the  book- 
seller, to  have  a  small  regular  salary,  and  to  devote 
himself  to  the  "  Monthly  He  view." 


10 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


The  hist'^^'v  of  literature  at  this  time  in  England 
^ves  muc.  pace  necessarily  to  the  bookseller.  In 
the  transition  period  of  authorship,  this  middleman 
occupied  a  position  of  power  and  authority  not  since 
accorded  to  him ;  it  was  a  singular  relation  which  the 
drudging  author  held  to  his  employer,  and  Goldsmith 
from  this  time  forward  was  scarcely  ever  free  from  2 
dependence  upon  the  autocrats  of  the  book  trade.  He 
entered  the  profession  of  literature  as  upon  something 
which  was  a  little  more  profitable  and  certainly  more 
agreeable  than  the  occupation  of  an  usher  in  a  board- 
ing-school, or  the  profession  of  a  doctor  without  pay- 
ing clients.  A  profession  which  now  dignifies  its 
members  was  then  without  respect  socially,  and  at- 
tended by  all  the  meanness  which  springs  from  a  false 
position.  The  rich  and  powerful  in  government  looked 
upon  it  as  a])pointed  only  to  serve  the  ends  of  the  am- 
bitious, and  th(^  ])oor  author  had  to  struggle  to  main- 
tain his  independence  of  nature.  The  men  who  could 
sell  their  talents  and  their  self-respect  for  gold  and 
place  jostled  roughly  tlieir  nobler  comrades  who  served 
literature  faithfully  in  poverty,  and  it  was  only  now 
and  then  that  the  fickle  breath  of  po])ular  favor 
wi»^ted  some  author's  book  into  warmer  waters.  So 
crowding  was  this  Grub  Street  life  tliat  Goldsmith 
sought  release  from  it  in  a  vain  attempt  after  a  gov 
3rnment  appointment  as  medical  officer  at  (voromandel 
He  was  driven  back  into  the  galleys  from  which  he 
was  striving  to  escape,  yet  out  of  rhis  life  there  began 
to  issue  the  true  })roducts  of  his  genius.  He  brooded 
over  his  own  and  his  fellows'  condition.  Something 
within  him  made  protest  against  the  ignoble  state  of. 
literature,  and  he  wrote  the  first  book  which  gave  him 
a  name,  — "  An  Enquiry  into  the   Present  State  0/ 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


II 


Polite  Learning  in  Europe."  The  subject  was  wrur.^ 
from  his  fortunes,  but  the  style  was  the  music  which 
he  had  never  failed  to  hear  from  boyhood.  Style, 
bred  of  no  special  study  at  Trinity  College,  nor  too 
closely  allied  with  learning,  but  a  gift  of  nature, 
guarded  well  and  cherished  by  tlie  varying  fortune 
which  was  moulding  his  mind  in  the  secret  fashion 
that  makes  a  genuine  surprise  when  discovered :  this 
was  seen  in  his  book,  and  justified  his  place  in  the 
great  profession  of  authorship.  There  is  in  Gold- 
smith's life,  as  in  Andersen's,  and  in  that  of  many  a 
man  of  genius,  the  sad,  sweet  story  of  the  Ugly  Duck- 
ling. Pecked  at  and  scorned  by  meaner  associates, 
conscious  of  disadvantages  and  of  inferiority  in  infe- 
rior things,  a  divine  ray  of  hope  and  longing  never 
left  hiiii ;  and  when  at  last  he  f^ave  outward  expression 
to  the  genius  in  him,  he  found  liiniself  amongst  his 
true  fellows,  recognized  by  nu'u  of  genius  as  their  as- 
sociate. From  this  time  forward  Goldsmith  knew  his 
place  and  took  it.  lie  was  thirty-one  years  of  age, 
and  in  the  remainder  of  liis  life  he  W:ote  his  essays  in 
"  The  Bee  "  and  -  The  Citizen  of  the  World  ;  "  '^  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,''  "  The  Traveller/'  '*  The  Deserted 
Village:"  his  shorter  poems ;  and  the  two  comedies, 
"  A  Good-natured  Man "  and  "  She  Stoops  to  Con 
quer."  In  quantity  not  a  large  showing,  but  glisten 
ing  with  that  pure  fancy  and  happy  temper  which  are 
among  the  choicest  gifts  of  literature  to  a  tired  world. 
These  are  his  works  which  give  him  his  place  in  liter- 
ature, but  during  the  time  wlien  they  were  composed 
he  was  constantly  at  work  upon  tasks,  lie  wrote  his 
histories  of  England  and  Rome  and  his  "  Animated 
Nature,"  which,  despite  its  unscientific!  cast,  is  a  store* 
house  of   delightful  reading;    and  he  wrote  reviewSi 


12 


BTOGRA  PHICA  L  SKE  TCR . 


essays,  prefaces,  translations,  and  the  like,  quite  beyond 
record. 

Yet  all  this  time  he  was  in  deht.  PTe  did  not  want 
because  his  work  was  ill  paid  or  he  was  not  indus- 
trious, but  because  his  money  slipped  through  his 
fingers,  too  volatile  to  hold  it  fast.  Some  of  it  went 
upon  his  back  in  the  odd  finery  which  has  stuck  tc 
his  reputation,  but  a  large  share  went  to  the  poor  and 
miserable.  Look  at  the  poor  man  lying  dead  in  his 
solitary  chamber.  "  The  staircase  of  Birch  Court  is 
said  to  have  been  filled  with  mourners,  the  reverse  of 
domestic :  women  without  a  home,  without  domesticity 
of  any  kind,  with  no  friend  but  him  they  had  come  to 
weep  for,  outcasts  of  that  great,  solitary,  wicked  city, 
to  whom  he  had  never  forgotten  to  be  kind  and  char- 
itable."! 

There  were  two  sets  of  people  who  looked  upon 
Oliver  Goldsmith  the  poet,  and  each  saw  correctly 
enough  what  each  was  capable  of  seeing.  One  saw  in 
him  a  shiftless,  vain,  awkward,  homely  fellow,  thrust- 
ing himself  into  good  company,  blundering,  blurting 
out  nonsense  or  malapx'opos  sayings,  a  gooseberry 
fool.  The  other,  containing  men  of  genius,  laughed 
at  "poor  Goldy,"  but  never  failed  to  seek  his  com- 
pany and  to  receive  him  as  their  equal.  When  Bvrke 
was  told  of  his  death,  he  burst  into  tears.  Reynolds 
was  painting  when  the  news  was  brought  to  him ;  he 
laid  his  pencil  aside  and  would  not  go  back  that  day 
to  his  studio,  a  sign  of  grief  never  shown  in  times  of 
deep  family  distress.  Johnson  never  ceased  to  mourn 
him,  and  cast  his  profoundest  conviction  of  the  poet's 
genius  into  the  monumental  lines  which  form  one  of 
the  noblest  of  elegies. 

^  Forster's  The.  Life  and  Ti.aes  of  Oliver  Golffsniith,  ii.  467- 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


*'  The  Deserted  Village  "  was  not  Goldsmith's  first 
considerable  poem;  that  was  "The  Traveller,"  pub- 
lished five  or  six  years  earlier ;  but  it  is  the  produc- 
tion which  has  endeared  him  most  to  readers,  and  it  is 
in  form  and  content  one  of  the  most  melodious  and 
at  the  same  time  thoughtful  poems  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Its  foundations  are  laid  deep  in  human  na- 
ture, for  it  is  at  once  the  refiection  of  a  man  upon  the 
beginning  of  his  life,  and  the  return  in  thought  of  one 
who  has  seen  much  of  the  world  to  tliose  simple  de- 
lights which  are  most  elemental,  least  dependent  uj)()n 
the  conventions  of  complex  society.  The  poem  is,  be- 
sides, the  contribution  of  an  earnest  thinker  toward 
the  solution  of  great  national  and  social  problems. 
Goldsmith  had  already  shown  in  "  The  Traveller  "  not 
only  that  he  was  a  clear-sighted  observer  of  scenes  in 
various  lands  and  an  interpreter  of  national  character- 
istics, but  that  his  mind  had  been  at  work  on  the  great 
ijuestion  of  what  constitutes  the  real  prosperity  of  na- 
tions. In  this  poem  he  returns  to  the  subject  and 
makes  his  thought  still  more  luminous  by  drawing 
a  contrast  between  two  separate  conditions  in  the  same 
nation,  rather  than  instituting  a  comparison  among 
several  nations. 

Never  was  the  truth  of  literary  art,  that  the  great- 
est success   is  attained  when    form  and    content  ar»* 


14 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


inseparably  joined,  better  exemplified  than  in  "The 
Deserted  Village."  Here  is  serious  thought,  but  it  is 
presented  in  such  exquisite  language,  it  is  illustrated 
by  such  a  series  of  charming  pictures  that  one  scarcely 
perceives  at  first  the  solidity  of  the  structure  of  the 
poem.  A  great  contemporary  of  Goldsmith's,  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson,  wrote  a  sonorous  and  thoughtful 
poem  called  "  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,"  but 
though  it  was  greatly  and  justly  praised  at  the  time,  ^1 
has  failed  to  fasten  itself  on  the  affection  of  readers 
for  lack  of  that  translucent  beauty  of  form  which  has 
preserved  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  and  "  The  Trav- 
eller." 

For  Goldsmith  was  preemiiuMitly  a  poet ;  in  his  trav- 
els he  saw  into  the  soul  of  things ;  in  his  reflection 
he  penetrated  beneath  the  surface,  and  in  his  expres- 
sion, both  as  regards  words,  phrases,  and  construction, 
he  had  the  intuitive  sense  which  chose  the  right  word, 
g.tve  music  to  his  phrase,  and  made  the  whole  poem  a 
work  of  art.  This  poem,  therefore,  like  any  great 
imaginative  piece,  must  not  be  examined  too  closely 
for  an  identity  with  prosaic  fact.  There  is  a  likeness, 
unquestionably,  between  Sweet  Auburn,  and  Lissoy, 
the  village  where  Goldsmith  passed  his  childhood  ;  the 
portrait  of  the  village  preacher  might  readily  be  taken 
for  a  sketch  either  of  Goldsmith's  father  or  his 
brother  Henry;  enthusiastic  investigators  even  give 
the  actual  name  of  the 

"  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  ^iresses  spread  ;  *' 

but  one  must  never  forget,  if  he  would  enter  most  com= 
pletely  into  the  poet's  way  of  looking  at  life,  that  all 
these  facts  of  experience  are  transmuted   into  vivid 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


If 


he 


IS 


images,  creations  of  the  poet's  mind  out  of  material 
afforded  him  by  memory  and  observation. 

When*  Goldsmith  wrote  ''The  Deserted  Village," 
he  was  at  the  height  of  his  fame  and  his  power.  He 
was  now  in  his  forty-seeond  year ;  he  had  produced  in 
close  proximity  to  each  other  a  few  years  before,  u. 
notable  poem,  ''  The  i  raveller,"  and  a  still  more  nota 
ble  piece  of  fiction,  ''Tlie  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  He 
was  the  friend  of  the  literary  nobility  of  the  day,  and 
was  regarded  by  the  booksellers  as  an  important  liter- 
ary workman.  The  poem  was  published  May  26, 1770. 
Its  success  was  immediate  and  great.  Within  three 
months  five  editions  were  called  for,  and  though  we 
do  not  know  the  size  of  the  editions,  it  is  easy  to  see 
from  tliis  statement  that  each  time  the  bookseller.} 
printed,  public  interest  ran  ahead  of  their  calculations. 
The  poem  was  dedicated  to  the  great  English  painter, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  returned  the  compliment  by 
painting  a  picture,  ''  Resignation,"  to  be  engraved  by 
Thomas  Watson  and  inscribed  with  these  words: 
"  This  attempt  to  express  a  character  in  '  The  De- 
serted Village '  is  dedicated  to  Doctor  Goldsmith,  by 
his  sincere  friend  and  admirer,  Joshua  Reynolds." 

There  was  another  ]ioet  whose  name  is  easily  linked 
with  that  of  Goldsmith,  Thomas  Gray,  the  author  of 
*'  An  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard."  He 
had  distilled  his  precious  verse,  and  was  now  passing 
what  proved  to  be  the  last  sunnner  of  his  life  with  his 
friend  Nicholls  at  Malvern,  when  the  poem  came  out. 
He  asked  to  hear  it  read  ;  and  listening  attentively  to 
it,  he  gave  the  emphatic  verdict,  which  was  much  from 
Gray,  "  That  man  is  a  poet." 

The  fame  of  the  poem  extended  far,  for  Goethe  in 
liis   autobiographic    memoir  refers    to   it   thus :    ''  A 


16 


iNTuui>ucr(fHy  note. 


poetical  production,  wlii(!h  our  little  circle  hailed 
witli  transport,  now  occui)ic{l  our  attention  :  this  was 
Goldsmith's  '  TIte  Deserted  Village.'  This  poem 
seemed  perfectly  adapted  to  the  sentiments  which  then 
actuated  us.  The  pi(;tures  which  it  represented  were 
those  which  we  loved  to  contemplate  and  sought  with 
avidity,  in  order  to  enjoy  them  with  all  the  zest  of 
youth.'' 

Goethe's  attitude  toward  the  poem  suggests  a  line 
of  research  for  the  student  who  wishes  to  carry  his 
study  of  the  poem  beyond  the  ordinary  limits,  and 
that  is,  an  inquiry  into  the  temper  of  the  most 
thoughtful  English,  German,  and  French  writers  just 
prior  to  that  ui)heaval  of  society  which  found  its 
most  violent  expression  in  the  French  Kevolution. 

The  reader  of  the  poem,  as  well  as  of  Goldsmith's 
verse  in  general,  if  he  is  unfamiliar  with  any  other 
than  nineteenth-century  poetry,  will  very  likely  be 
puzzled  by  the  use  of  words  in  senses  unfamiliar. 
Some  of  these  uses  are  pointed  out  in  the  notes,  but 
many  more  will  be  learned  by  recourse  ,to  a  good  dic- 
tionary. Next  to  a  reading  of  the  poem  for  delight 
comes  the  scrutiny  of  the  language,  and  the  reader  is 
advised  to  look  closely  at  the  words,  since  in  many 
instances  an  apparent  meaning  will  be  found  to  be 
more  modern  ;  the  real  meaning  to  be  an  historical 
one,  familiar  to  Goldsmith,  but  antiquated  now.  In- 
deed, in  some  respects  Goldsmith's  language  is  more 
likely  to  be  misinterpreted  than  Shakespeare's. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  ar 
address  of  this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation, 
or  to  establish  my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from 
my  admiration,  as  I  am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which 
you  are  said  to  excel ;  and  I  may  lose  much  by  the 
severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few  have  a  juster  taste 
in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest,  therefore,  aside, 
to  which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  in- 
dulged at  present  in  following  my  affections.  The 
only  dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother,  be- 
cause I  loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He  is 
since  dead.     Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification 
and  mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I  do  not 
pretend  to  inquire ;  but  I  know  you  will  object  (and 
indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest  friends  concur  in 
the  opinion),  that  the  depopulation  it  deplores  is  no- 
where to  be  seen,  and  the  disorders  it  laments  are 
only  to  be  found  in  the  poet's  own  imagination.  To 
this  I  can  scarce  make  any  other  answer  than  that  T 
sincerely  believe  what  I  have  written ;  that  I  have 
taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions,  for 
these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I 
allege ;  and  that  all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led 
me  to  believe  those  miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt 
to  display.     But  this  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  an 


18 


DEDICATION. 


iiiqiiiry,  whether  the  country  he  tlep()]>ulatiiig  or  not; 
the  discussion  would  take  up  nnich  room,  unci  I  should 
prove  myself,  at  hest,  an  indifferent  politician,  to  tire 
the  reader  with  a  long  preface,  when  I  want  his 
unfatigued  attention  to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  in- 
veigh against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries ;  and  here 
also  I  ex])ect  the  shout  of  modern  politicians  against 
me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past,  it  has  been  the 
fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest  na- 
tional advantages  ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity,  in 
that  particular,  as  erroneous.  Still,  however,  I  must 
remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head,  and  continue 
to  think  those  luxuries  prejudicial  to  states  by  which 
so  many  vices  are  introduced,  and  so  many  kingdoms 
have  been  undone.  Inc'eed,  so  much  has  been  poured 
out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty  and  variety,  one  would 
sometimes  wish  to  be  in  the  right.  —  I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  sincere  Friend  and  ardent  Admirer, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Sweet  Aulmrn !  loveliest  village^  of  the  plain, 
Where    health  aiul    plenty  cheerM    the    lalDoring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd  ; 

5  Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ! 
aIow  often  have  I  pausM  on  every  charm, 

10  The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

15  How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

?o  The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd  ; 

4.  Parting,  i.  e.,  departing,  much  as  we  use  the  phrase  "  to  part 
with."     Here  summer  parts  with  us. 

12.  Decent.  Following  its  Latin  origin,  the  word  was  most 
commonly  used  in  the  eighteenth  century  in  its  sense  of  becom- 
ing, fit. 

19.  Circled.     See  an  equivalent  phrase  in  line  22. 


20 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of   art   and   feats  of   strength   went 
round ; 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd  ; 
2s  The  dancing  pair  that  sim])ly  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

Wljile  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
30  The   matron's  glance  that    would    those  looks   re- 
prove : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like 
these. 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please ; 

These  round  thy    bowers   their   cheerful  influence 
shed, 

These  were  thy  charms,  —  but  all  these  charms  are 
fled. 


35      Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn ! 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 

io  And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But  chok'd  with  sedges  works  its  weedy  way ; 

27.  The  rude  sports  of  the  village  no  doubt  survive  iu  English 
country  life  ;  any  one  who  reads  the  chapter  A  London  Suburb  in 
Hawthorne's  Our  Old  Home  will  recognize  a  likeness  between 
Greenwich  Fair  as  Hawthorne  saw  it  and  the  Sweet  Auburn  of 
Goldsmith's  recollection.  And  American  readers  could  supply 
from  boyish  pranks  the  explanation  of 

**The  swain  mistrustless  of  bis  smutted  face.'* 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE. 


21 


Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 

46  Amidst  *liy  desert-walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertons  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand 

30  Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  : 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  w  breath  has  made 
65  But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never,  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  p]ngland*s  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man ; 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
«o  Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,  but  gave  no  more ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health ; 
And  his  best  r'^hes,  ignorance  of  wealth. 


But  times  are  alter'd  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 

44.  In  his  Animated  Nature,  which  is  a  book  of  descriptive 
natural  history,  Gohlsinith  uses  the  same  term  to  characterizu 
the  bittern,  "  Of  all  these  sounds,"  he  says,  "  there  is  none  so  dis- 
mally hollow  as  the  booming  of  the  bittern.  ...  I  remember  in 
the  place  where  I  was  a  boy,  with  what  terror  this  bird's  note 
affected  the  whole  village." 

52.  Goldsmith  wrote  earnestly  and  at  some  length  on  this 
theme  in  the  nineteenth  chapter  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

63.  The  plural  idea  in  train  was  uppermost  in  Goldsmith's 
mind,  so  that  he  uses  the  plural  form  in  the  verbs  in  the  next  line. 


22 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


63  Along  the  lawn,  where  scjitter'd  hiiuilt'ts  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  ciunbrous  poMip  repose; 
And  every  want  to  opulenee  allied, 
A:id  every  l)ang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom 

w  Tliose  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those    healthful    sports  that    gracM    the   peaceful 

scene, 
Liv'd  in  ea'v^h  look,  and  brighteuM  all  the  green : 
These,  far  departing,  s(?ek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

76       Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin'd  grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 

80  Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes,  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 


In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
»  I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 

To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  ; 

I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends  us  still  — 
90  Amidst  the  swains  to  show  iny  book-learn 'd  skill, 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 

And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 

74.  Maimers  has  here  the  meaning'  of  customs  rather  than  be« 
havior. 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Pants  to  i\\i\  pliiee  f lom  wiu'iufc  iit  first  she  flew, 
M  I  still  hail  h()|)t\s,  my  loii^'  vexations  past, 
Hero  to  return,  —  an  I  die  at  hon\e  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement !  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these 

1(H)  A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 

Who  quits  a  worhl  where  strong  temptations  tryj 
And,  since  't  is  hard  to  cond)at,  learns  to  fly  I 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  temi)t  the  dangerous  deep  j 

105  No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate : 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 

110  While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 


Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 

115  There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  sof ten'd  from  below : 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool ; 

120 The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school; 

101.  Goldsniltli,  writing  one  may  say  almost  as  a  journalist, 
gave  little  heed  to  possible  repetitions  of  his  phrases,  and  in  Thb 
Bee  he  wrote  :  '*  By  struggling  wi^h  n'isfortunes,  we  are  sure  to 
receive  some  wound  in  the  conflict :  the  only  method  to  come 
oflf  victorious  is  by  running  away." 


24 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


The  watch-dog's  voice  that   bay'd  the  whispering 

wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind : 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fiird  each  i)ause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

I2r.  But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing 

130  That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  —  forc'd  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  — 

i;{5  She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sael  historian  of  the  pensile  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  w^here  once  the  garden  smiPd* 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flow^er  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
140  The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 


121.  "  I  had  rjitlier  Le  a  dog,  and  Lay  the  moon,  than  such  a 
Roman."  —  Shakespeare,  Julius  Ccesar,  Act  iv.  Scene  iii.  1.  27. 

124.  Again  in  his  Animated  Nature,  Goldsmith  says:  "The 
nightingale's  pausing  song  would  he  the  proper  epithet  for  this 
bird's  music." 

141.  One  needs  but  to  read  Goldsmith's  dedication  of  The 
Traveller  to  see  how  closely  he  copied  from  life  in  drawing  this 
portrait  of  the  village  preacher.  Goldsmith's  use  of  "  passing" 
ia  as  Shakespeare's 

"She  awuru,  in  faith,  'twaa  atrange,  'twaa  pasHing  strange." 

Otbellu,  Aut  1.  Scene  iii.  1.  16a 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE. 


25 


ReiiiOte  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wishM  to  change,  his  place; 
145  Unpractis'd  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 

More  skill'd  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
irx)  He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relievM  their  pain* 

The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest. 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'di 
uvThe  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

►Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away  ; 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  shew'd  how  fields  were 
won. 

Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 
glow, 
160  And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side : 

165  But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all 
And  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 

I'O  AUur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd. 
171.  f^ee  note  on  line  4, 


20 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguisli  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
175  Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper' d  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 

130  And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile. 
And  pluck'd    his  gown,  to  share  the   good   man's 
smile. 

1S5  His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest. 

Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  di  trest ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven : 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

190  Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though   round   its   breast  the   rolling   clouds   are 

spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 


Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  g?y, 

'  '  There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  everv  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  h^arn'd  to  trace 

2W  The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 

Full  well  they  laughM,  with  countorfinted  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  lie  ; 


THE  DESEHTEl)   VILLAGE. 


27 


Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  lie  frown'd. 
i!05  Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew ; 

'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
no  And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge  ; 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  ownVl  his  skill. 

For  even  though  vanquisli'd  he  could  argue  still ; 

While  words   of    'earned    length    and    thundering 
sound 

Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around  ; 
215  And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 


But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot, 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumpli'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
m  Where  once  the  sign -post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  in- 
spired, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd, 
Where  village    statesmen   talk'd   with   looks   pro- 

found, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
225  Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 

209.  The  terms  were  sc>,sioiis  of  law  courts  cand  universities 
The  tides  were  times  and  seasons,  especially  in  the  ecclesias- 
tical year.     He  could  tell  when  Eastertide,  for  instance,  would 
come. 

210.  A  ganger  is  in  some  places  a  sworn  officer,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  measure  the  contents  of  hogsheads,  barrels,  or  casks. 


28  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

The  parlor  spJondors  of  that  festive  place : 
The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door  3 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

m  A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay, 

isr,  While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Eang\l  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 


Vain,  transitory  splendors !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 

no  An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 

245  No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear  ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 

226-236.  The  first  form  of  this  description  will  be  found  itr 
the  verses  given  later,  page  88. 

232.  The  twelve  rules  ascribed  to  Charles  I.  were  :  1.  Urge  no 
healths.  2.  Profane  no  divine  ordinances.  3.  Touch  no  state 
matters.  4.  Keveal  no  secrets.  5.  Pick  no  quarrels.  6.  Make 
no  companions.  7.  Maintain  no  ill  opinions.  8.  Keep  no  bad 
company.  9.  Encourage  no  vice.  10.  Make  no  long  meal.  11. 
Repeat  no  grievances.  12.  Lay  no  wagers.  Tlie  royal  game  of 
goose  was  a  species  of  checkers. 

244,  Woodman's  ;  that  is,  a  man  versed  in  woodcraft,  as  a 
hunter,  not  necessarily  a  wood-chopper. 


THE  DESERVED   VILLAGE. 


^ 


Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
250  Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

255  Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  swayj 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfm'd. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

260  With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array 'd,  — 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 
And  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  ask  if  this  be  joy. 

866      Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'T  is  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore- 

ro  And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 

250.  To  kiss  the  cup  was  to  touch  it  with  the  lips  before  ptisH^ 
ing.     Ben  Jonson's  well-known  verses  to  Celia  begin  :  — 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 
And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine." 

268.  Goldsmith  says  a  similar  thing  in  the  Citizen  of  the 
World,  when  he  makes  the  sententious  remark  :  "  There  is  a 
wide  difference  between  a  conquering  and  a  flourishing  empire-*' 


80 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


280 


©5 


Yet  count  our  gains :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name, 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  boundsc, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the   neighboring  fields   of   half    theii 

growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 
Wliile  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all 
In  b^.rren  s2)lendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 


As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  })lease  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

»o  Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are 

frail. 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 
In  all  the  glaring  im])otence  of  dress  : 

ws  Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd. 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array 'd ; 
But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise. 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

i'Oo  The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save. 
The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

287.  The  use  of  "  female  "  for  "  woman  "  was  common  as  late 
as  Walter  Scott. 


THE  DESi^RTED  VILLAGE, 


31 


Where  then,  ah !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 

305  If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fiekls  the  sons  of  wealth  divide* 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  d«nied. 
If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 

310  To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combin'd. 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 

<Ji5  Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  dis 

play. 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 

320  Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square^ 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  I 

305,  If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  [having]  strayecL 

309.  If  to  the  city  [he  has]  sped. 

316.  Artist  was  applied  to  those  engaged  in  the  useful  an^, 

mechanic  arts  in  Goldsmith's  time. 

319c  When  Coleridge  wrote, 

"  111  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree," 

be,  too,  like  Goldsmith,  was  using  a  word  not  in  what  we  regani 
as  its  technical  sense,  but  as  expressing  a  certain  splendor  of 
building. 

322.  Even  now  in  the  thick  November  fogs  of  London,  link- 
boys,  or  boys  with  torches,  point  the  way.  Before  the  introduc- 
tion of  street  lamps,  such  aids  were  common  whenever  the  gen- 
try would  move  about  after  night-fall. 


32 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


aj^Are  these  thy  serioud  thoughts?     Ah!  turn  thine 
eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  oQivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  ])erhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
lias  wei)t  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
lier  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

j.;i)  Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  5 
Now  lost  to  all  —  her  friends,  her  virtue  lied  — 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinch'd  with   cold,   and    shrinking  from  the 

shower, 
Witli  h(iavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 

ajo  \Mien  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
;f4ti  At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 

Ah,  no !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 


•  326.  In  his  Citizen  of  the  Tfbr^rf  Goldsmith  has  said  :  "These 
poor  shivering  females  have  once  seen  happier  days,  and  been 
riattered  into  beauty.  .  .  .  Perhaps  now  lying  at  the  doors  ol 
their  betrayers,  they  sue  to  wretches  whose  hearts  are  insensible.*' 

336    Her  [si)inning]  wheel. 

343-358.  Goldsmith,  like  Englishmen  ot  a  later  day,  was  a 
little  hazy  in  his  notion  of  what  the  wilderness  of  America  con- 
tained. He  wrote  not  long  after  Oglethorpe  was  giving  relief 
to  many  poor  and  distressed  debtors,  by  welcoming  them  to  his 
colony  of  Georgia.  The  Altama  is  better  known  as  the  Altar 
maha,  but  a  certain  poetic  liberty  attaches  to  the  description  in 
generaL 


TfiK   DESERTED   VILLAGE.  3H 

Whore  wild  Altaiua  inurninrs  to  tlic^'r  woe 

34»  Far  different  theni  from  all  that  charniM  before^ 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore : 
Those  blazing  suns  that  d;irt  a  downward  ray.; 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  nuitted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

T'O  But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  ; 

Those  pois'nous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance*  crowrfc 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 
VA^here  at  each  step  tlie  stranger  fears  to  wnko 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 

ibo  Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  ha])less  prey 
And  savage  men  more  murd«'rous  still  than  they  ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  Hies, 
Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 

m  The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  cover^  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  sheltei'd  thefts  of  harndess  love. 

Good  Heaven!  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  part 
ing  day 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
363  When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 

Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly   look'd  their 

last. 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wislvd  in  vain 
F'or  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
370  Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep  \ 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepar'd  to  go 


368,  It  was  a  eoinmon  phrase  in  the  earlier  colonial  days  tc 
say  ^f  colonists  that  they  "  sate"  in  a  particular  region. 


34  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wisli'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

375      His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  eonipanion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 

With  louder  ])laints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
i^o  And  bless'd  the  cot  wlu^i'e  every  pk^asure  rose  ; 

And   kiss'd   her   thoughtless    babes    with   many    a 
tear 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

385      O  Luxury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanji'd  are  things  like  these  for  thee ' 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

390  Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe  ; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

m      Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 


398.  Here  begins  a  sort  of  vision  in  which  Goldsmith  pictures 
snob  an  emigrant  baud  leaving  England  for  America. 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE, 


;^5 


Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail. 

4(MiThat  idly  waiting  flaps  witli  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  niehincholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  daiktui  all  the  straivl 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there ; 

4t»6  And  Piety  with  wishes  ])lacM  above, 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sw(?et  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  niaid» 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade  ; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 

410  To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike?  for  honest  fame ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  ])ride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st   me   poor  at  first,  and   keep'st  me 
so; 

us  Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell !  and  oh  I  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side. 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

420  Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime  ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  i)ersuasive  strain 
Teach  erring  man  to  si)urn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 

4j')  Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  posses!; 
407    One  is  reniiiided  of  Bislioj*  Berkeley's  lines, 

•'  Religion  stand.s  n-tiptop  on  tlie  strap'! 
Waiting  tc  pass  to  the  American  land/* 

409.  Unfit,  nnsnited 

418.  The  river  Tornea  or  Torneo  falls  into  the  Gulf  of  Both- 
nia. Pambamarca  is  given  by  Peter  Cunningham  as  a  moun- 
tain near  Quito. 


86 


OLIVER   aOlDSMITH, 


Though  very  j)oor,  may  still  be  very  bleat ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decav^ 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor'd  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
4  to  As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

427-430.  "  Dr.  Joliiison  favored  me  at  the  same  time  by  mark 
tag  the  lines  which  he  furnished  to  Goldsmith's  Deserted  VWag* 
which  are  only  the  last  four."    Boswell. 


ri> 


lUE  TRAVELLER;  OR  A  PROSPECT  OF 

SOCIETY. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


"The  Deserted  Village "  is  used  in  this  little  vol 
uiiie  to  iiitroduc*^  the  reader  to  Goldsmitirs  poetry,  be« 
cause  it  is  the  more  delightful  of  the  two  j)oems ;  and 
yet  we  doubt  if  any  one  who  has  enjoyed  it  will  lose 
his  interest  as  he  goes  on  and  reads  "  The  Traveller." 
Dr.  Johnson,  no  mean  critic,  was  disposed  to  ])refer  it 
to  the  other  poem.  "  Take  him  as  a  poet,"  he  said  ; 
"his  'Traveller*  is  a  very  fine  performance;  ay,  and 
so  is  his  '  Deserted  Village,'  were  it  not  sometimes 
too  much  the  echo  of  his  '  Traveller.' "  And  at  an. 
other  time,  when  the  poem  first  appeared,  he  exclaimed, 
"  There  has  not  been  so  fine  a  poem  since  Pope's  time." 
**  The  Deserted  Village  "  is  not  so  much  an  echo  of 
"  The  Traveller  "  as  it  is  a  restatement  of  the  funda- 
mental idea  in  that  poem  under  another  light,  as  we 
have  noticed  in  the  "  Introductory  Note."  Its  form 
was  determined  in  part  by  the  mode  of  its  composition. 
It  would  be  too  bald  a  phrase  to  say  that  it  is  a  poeti 
cal  diary,  and  Goldsmith  had  too  fine  a  sense  of  po 
etic  art  to  make  it  such ;  but  it  follows,  as  it  were»  the 
course  of  its  author's  wanderings,  and  is  a  poetic  epi- 
gram of  his  observations  and  reflections  in  various 
countries. 

It  was  begun  in  Switzerland  in  1755,  but  not  com- 
pleted until  1764 ;  and  though  Goldsmith  had  written 


38 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


and  printed  Diucli  prior  to  tluit  time,  this  was  the 
first  work  which  bore  his  name  and  was  therefore  his 
introduction  as  an  author  to  tlie  reading  public.  The 
effect  of  the  poem  upon  his  own  reputation  was  great. 
He  had  been  in  the  eyes  of  those  about  him  a  blunder- 
ing good  fellow,  a  newspaper  essayist  and  bookseller's 
drudge.  He  belonged  indeed  to  the  Literary  Club, 
but  it  was  by  virtae  of  his  complete  absorption  in  lit* 
erary  pursuits,  rather  than  because  of  any  separate  and 
distinguished  work.  Now  he  began  to  be  estimated 
at  his  real  worth.  "  Goldsmith  being  mentioned,*' 
says  Boswell,  who  spoke  the  truth  In  spite  of  his  preju^ 
dices,  —  a  sort  of  Balaam  in  literature,  —  "  Johnson 
observed  that  it  was  long  before  his  merit  came  to  be 
acknowledged.  That  he  once  complained  to  him,  in 
ludicrous  terms  of  distress,  '  AVhenever  I  write  any- 
thing, the  public  mal\:e  a  point  to  know  nothing  about 
it ;  *  but  that  his  *  Traveller '  brought  him  into  high 
reputation.  Langton.  'There  is  not  one  bad  line 
in  that  poem ;  not  one  of  Dryden's  careless  verses.* 
Sir  Joshua.  '  I  was  glad  to  hear  Chavles  Fox  say,  it 
was  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  Englisli  language.' 
Langton.  '  Why  was  you  glad  ?  You  surely  had  no 
doubt  of  this  before.'  Johnson.  '  No ;  the  merit  of 
*'The  Traveller"  is  so  well  established  that  Mr.  Fox's 
praise  cannot  augment  it,  nor  his  censure  diminish  it.' 
Sir  Joshua.  '  But  his  friends  may  suspect  they  had 
too  great  partiality  for  him.'  Johnson.  *  Nay,  sir. 
the  partiality  of  his  friends  was  always  against  him. 
It  was  with  tlifficulty  we  could  give  him  a  hearing. 
Goldsmith  liad  no  settled  notions  upon  any  subject ; 
so  he  talked  always  at  random.  It  seemed  to  be  his 
intention  to  blurt  out  whatever  was  in  his  mind,  and 
see  what  would  become  of  it.      He  was  angry,  fxtix 


INTRODUCTORY^  NOTE. 


39 


when  oatched  in  tin  absurdity  ;  but  it  did  not  prevent 
him  from  fallin<;-  into  another  tlie  next  minute.'"^ 

All  this  was  said  four  years  after  Goldsmith's  death, 
but  it  sets  before  us  in  lively  fashion  the  contrast  he 
presented  between  a  consummate  artist  in  his  work 
and  an  impetuous,  half  stannnering  talker.  He  was 
plainly  at  a  disadvantage  amongst  men  who  miale  con- 
versation a  fine  art,  but  his  spontaneity,  nevertheless, 
must  have  made  him  a  delightful  companion.  ^^  The 
Traveller,"  as  we  have  said,  gave  him  at  once  intel- 
lectual repute  among  his  peers.  It  gave  him  |)lace 
a  little  more  slowly  with  the  general  public,  but  it 
needed  only  ''  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  shortly  after 
to  give  him  an  established  reputation. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  Goldsmith  in  his  dedication 
of  "  The  Traveller ''  had  some  bitter  words  to  say 
regarding  ChurchllL  Mr.  Forster  in  his  "  Life  and 
Adventures  of  Oliver  Goldsmith "  has  taken  excep- 
tion not  to  Goldsmitli's  scorn,  but  to  his  application  of 
it.  "To  Charles  Ilanbury  Williams,"  he  says,  "but 
not  to  Charles  Churchill,  sr.ch  epithets  belong.  .  .  . 
Never,  that  he  might  merely  fawn  upon  power  or 
trample  upon  weakness,  had  Churchill  let  loose  his 
pen.  There  was  not  a  form  of  mean  pretence  or  ser- 
vile assumption,  which  he  did  not  use  it  to  denounce. 
Low,  pimping  politics  he  abhorred ;  and  that  their 
worthless  abettors,  to  whose  exposure  his  works  are  so 
incessantly  devoted,  have  not  carried  him  into  oblivion 
with  themselves,  argues  something  for  the  sound  mo- 
rality and  permanent  truth  expressed  in  his  manly 
verse.  By  these  the  new  poet  was  to  profit ;  as  much 
by  the  faidts  which  perished  with  the   satirist,  and 

^  BosweWs  Life  of  Johnson,  edited  by  George  Eirkbeck  I J  ill, 
fii.  252. 


40 


lUTRODUCTORY  NOTE, 


left  the  lesson  of  avoidance  to  liis  successoi's.  In  the 
interval  since  Pope's  and  Thomson's  death,  since  Col- 
lins's  faint,  sweet  song,  since  the  silence  of  Young,  of 
Akenside,  and  of  Gray,  no  such  easy,  familiar,  and 
vigorous  verse  as  Churchill's  had  dwelt  in  the  public 
ear.  The  less  likely  was  it  now  to  turn  awav,  impa- 
tient or  intolerant  of   *  The  Traveller.'" 


1^ 


the 
Joi- 
,of 
and 
bllo 


I 


DEDICATION. 

TO   THE  REV.  HENRY  (40LDSMITH. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  am  scnsibk'  tliat  the  friendship  be 
tween  ns  can  acqnire  no  new  force  from  tlie  cere- 
monies of  a  dedicatioji ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an 
excuse  thus  to  iirefix  your  name  to  my  attempts,  which 
you  decline  giving  with  your  own.  But  as  a  part  of 
this  poem  was  formerly  written  to  you  from  Switzer- 
land, the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  in- 
scribed to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many 
parts  of  it,  when  the  reader  understands  that  it  is  ad- 
dressed to  a  man  who,  despising  fame  and  fortune, 
has  retired  early  to  happiness  and  obscurity,  with  an 
income  of  forty  pounds  a  year. 

I  now  perceivx%  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of 
your  humhle  choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred 
office,  where  the  harvest  is  great,  and  the  laborers  are 
but  few ;  while  you  have  left  the  field  of  and)ition, 
where  the  laborers  are  many,  and  the  harvest  not 
worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds  of  ambition. 
—  what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from  differ- 
ent  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  divisions  oi 
party,  —  that  which  pursues  })oetical  fame  is  the  wild- 
est. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpol- 
ished nations  *,  but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  extremes 
of  refinement,  painting  and  nuisic  come  in  for  a  share. 
As  these  offer  the  feeble  mind  a  less  laborious  enter 


42 


DEDTCATTON'. 


tainment,  they  at  first  rival  poetry,  and  at  length  sup* 
plant  her :  they  engross  all  that  favor  once  shown  to 
her,  and,  though  but  younger  sisters,  seize  upon  the 
elder's  birthright. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  pow- 
erful, it  is  still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken 
efforts  of  the  learned  to  improve  it.  What  criticisms 
liave  we  not  heard  of  late  in  favor  of  blank  verse  and 
Pindaric  odes,  choruses,  anapests  and  iambics,  alliter- 
ative care  and  happy  negligence !  Every  absurdity 
has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it ;  and  as  he  is  gener- 
ally  much  in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to  say  ; 
for  error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  danger- 
ous —  I  mean  party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judg- 
ment, and  destroys  the  taste.  When  the  mind  is  once 
infected  with  this  disease,  it  can  only  find  pleasure  in 
what  contributes  to  increase  the  distemper.  Like  the 
tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from  pursuing  man  after 
having  once  preyed  upon  human  flesh,  the  reader,  who 
has  once  gratified  his  appetite  with  calumny,  makes, 
ever  after,  the  most  agreeable  feast  upon  murdered  rep- 
utation. Such  readers  generally  admire  some  half- 
witted thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man,^ 
having  lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they 
dignify  with  the  name  of  poet :  his  tawdry  lampoons 
are  called  satires ;  his  turbulence  is  said  to  be  force, 
and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neither 
abuse,  party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot 
tell,  nor  am  I  solicitous  to  know.     My  aims  are  right. 

*  Churchill,  at  whom  all  this  is  aimed,  died  4th  November, 
1764,  wliile  the  first  edition  of  "  The  Traveller  "  was  passing 
through  the  press.  —  Peter  Cunnin(;ham, 


J)h:niCATlON, 


43 


Without  espoiisino^  iljo  v'au?a^  of  nny  jmrty,  I  have  at< 
tempted  to  moderate  the  ijjge  of  alL  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  show,  that  there  may  be  equal  happiness  in 
states  that  are  differently  governed  from  our  own ; 
that  every  state  has  a  particular  ])rinci])le  of  hap])iness, 
and  that  this  i)rinciple  in  eaeli  may  be  carried  to  a 
mischievous  excess.  There  are  few  can  judge,  better 
than  yourself,  how  far  these  positions  are  illustrated 
in  this  poem.     I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  most  affectionate  Brother, 

Oliver  Goldsmith, 


THE  TRAVELLER. 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow,  — - 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt  or  wandering  Po ; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door; 
5  Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies ;  — 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see. 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 

1 .  There  are  few  lines  in  English  verse  that  compel  a  correct 
reading  so  certainly  as  this.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  the 
most  heedless  not  to  read  it  with  a  lingering  emphasis  on  each 
word.  The  story  is  told  by  Boswell  that  at  a  meeting  of  the  Lit- 
erary Club  just  after  the  publication  of  the  poem  somebody 
asked  Goldsmith  what  he  meant  by  the  word  *'  slow  ;  *'  did  he 
mean  tardiness  of  locomotion  ?  *'  1^  es,"  replied  Goldsmith,  but 
Johnson  caught  him  up,  saying  :  "  No  sir,  you  did  not  mean 
tardiness  of  locomotion  ;  you  meant  that  sluggishness  of  mind 
which  comes  upon  a  man  in  solitude."  "  Ah,  that  was  what 
I  meant,"  Goldsmith  rejoined,  accepting  the  more  subtile  inter- 
pretation. His  answer  gave  rise  to  a  suspicion  that  Johnson 
wrote  the  line  as  well  as  many  others,  but  Johnson  afterward  in- 
dicated just  what  lines  he  did  write,  and  they  are  named  in  the 
notes.  Both  the  answers  were  correct;  one  does  not  exclude 
the  other.  The  main  thing  to  be  noted  is  that  the  poet  instinct- 
ively used  the  right  word. 

2.  "r  ...  or  —  a  Latin  form,  which  has  pretty  much  dropped 
out  of  English  use. 

3.  Peter  Cunningham,  one  of  Goldsmith's  editors,  writing  in 
1853,  says  :  "  Carinthia  [east  of  the  Tyrol]  was  visited  by  Gold* 
smith  in  1755  and  still  retains  its  character  for  iuhospitality/' 


THE   TRAVELLEH, 


45 


Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
10  And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend : 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ; 

15  Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair. 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair ; 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

M  Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale. 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destin'd  such  delights  to  share. 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care  — 

86  Impelled,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 

Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view ; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies ;  — 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 

so  And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 
Ev'n  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 

10.  In  his  Citizen  of  the  World,  Goldsmith  repeats  this  senti- 
tneiit  in  prose  :  "  The  farther  I  travel  I  feel  the  pain  of  sepa 
ration  with  stronger  force.     Those  ties  that  bind  nie  to  my  na 
tive  country  and  you  are  still  unbroken;  by  every  remove  Ionl> 
drag  a  greater  length  of  chain." 

13-22.  Goldsmith  returns  to  this  theme  with  more  specific 
Urords  in  The  Deserted  Village,  lines  149-152. 

24.  The  dashes  used  here  and  four  lines  below  serve  almost 
as  marks  of  parenthesis,  and  enable  the  reader  to  perceive  that 
a  sentence  has  been  suspended,  and  that  it  finds  completion  io 
Uues  29.  30. 


46 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH, 


I  sit  me  down  a  ])ensive  houi'  to  speiul ; 
And,  plac'd  on  lii<>h  above  the  storm's  career^ 
Look  downward  where  an  hundred  realms  appear; 
io  Lakes,  forests,  eities,  plains,  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  hnmbler  pride. 

When  thus  creation's  charms  around  cond)ine, 
Amidst  the  store,  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  tlie  })hilosopliic  mind  disdain 

44  That  <»ood  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain? 
Let  school-taught  })ride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

45  Ye   glittering   towns,   with   wealth   and   splendor 

crown'd. 
Ye  fields,  where  sunnner  spreads  profusion  round, 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale. 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine : 
80  Creation's  heir,  the  world  —  the  world  is  mine  I 


As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store. 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er: 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  ra})tures  fill. 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still : 
K  Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleas'd  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  swp 
plies : 

41.  School-taught  pride  ;  i.  e.,  the  prule  which  he  feels  who 
has  heen  taught  in  the  school  of  the  philosophers,  especially  of 
the  Stoics. 

48.  The  swains,  or  peasants,  bend  at  their  work,  which  is  that 
of  tilling,  or  dressing  the  field,  .or  the  use  of  the  word  "  dress  *' 
in  such  meaning,  see  Genesis  ii.  15. 


} 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


47 


Yet  oft  a  si<»li  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small; 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 
150  Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consif^n'd, 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest 
May  gatiit  r  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 


But  where  to  find  that  hai)piest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  ])retend  to  know  ? 

65  The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  hai)piest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease ; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 

70  Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave. 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gava 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam ; 
Plis  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 

'b  And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare. 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share. 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 

30  To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 


} 


Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labor's  earnest  call ; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 

57.  Prevails,  i.  e.,  gets  the  better  of  one.  Sorrow's  fali  isantv 
thetieal  to  "  vising  raptures  "  above. 

60.  Real  must  be  read  as  a  word  of  two  syllables. 

69.  The  phrase  "  crossing  the  line,"  of  a  ship  sailing  into  the 
tropics,  intimates  what  "  the  line  "  here  is. 


«8 


OLIVER  aOLDSMITIl, 


On  Idra's  cliffs  as  Ariio's  slu'lvy  sule ; 

fis  And,  tli<)u«^h  the  rocky-civsU'd  sununits  frown. 
These  rocks  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent : 
Wealth,  connnerce,  honor,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  otlicr's  i)ower  so  strong"  contest^ 

wThat  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  faik 
And  honor  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state,  to  one  lov'd  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone: 

w  Each  to  the  favorite  happiness  attends. 
And  s})urns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends ; 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  favorite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 


1 


But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyeis, 
100  And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies. 
Here  for  a  while,  my  proper  cares  resign'd, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub,  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 


105      Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends ; 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 

Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride  ; 

While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
no  With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

84.  The  contrast  is  between  the  precipitous  side  of  Idra  ano 
5;he  gently  sloping  side  of  Arno. 
87.  Tlie  comparison  is  between  Nature,  81-80,  and  Art,  87,  88. 
91,  92.  These  lines  illustrate  the  exact  meaning  of  line  90. 
98.  The  pain  peculiar  to  itself. 


THE    TliAVELLEll. 


49 


ik 


Coultl  nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  ditferent  elinies  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  eourt  the  ground; 

113  Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  traets  ap^iear, 

Whose  bright  sueeession  decks  the  varied  year ; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die: 
Those,  here  disi)orting,  own  the  kindred  soil, 

iJoNor  ask  hixuriance  from  the  ])lanter\s  toil; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 


But  small  th(5  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 

125  In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  numners  reign  : 
Though  poor,  luxurious ;  though  submissive,  vain  ; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling;  zealous,  yet  untrue; 

I3t»  And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind. 
For  wealth  was  theirs ;  not  far  remov'd  the  date. 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished    through  the 

state. 
At  her  command  the  palace  learnt  to  rise, 


13.J 


mo 
88. 


119.  Own,  i.  e.,  own  the  soil  to  be  kindred,  or  of  like  kind  with 
that  which  is  native  to  them. 

124.  Sensual  derives  its  specific  meaning  here  from  sense  in 
1.  123,  and  must  not  be  taken  in  an  evil  significance. 

127.  See  The  Deserted  Village,  1.  74. 

129.  Zealous,  for  r  xigion. 

132.  That  opulence  [when  it  has]  departed. 


60 


OLI I  ER  (iOL DSMirri 


AgJiin  the  l(»iit»-fail('ii  (lolmiin  soii^^Iit  the  skios; 
The;  <*iiiiv;is  i;lo\vM  heyoiid  cv'n  nature  wiiriii, 
The  j>r(!^n:int  (luiurv  teeiiiM  with  huiiiiin  form; 
Till,  iiioi'e  unsteady  than  the  soutiiern  gale, 
1^"  C()nnn(4*(!e  ou  other  shoriis  display'd  her  sail; 
While  nonf^ht  reniain'd  of  all  that  riches  jL;ave, 
Ihit  towns  ninnann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave  ; 
And  lat(i  the  nation  found,  with  fi'uitless  skil), 
Its  former  strength  was  hut  plethorie  ill. 

145      Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealtli  is  here  supplied 

By  arts,  the  s]>lendid  wrecks  of  formei*  j)ride  ; 

From  these  the  feehh^  lieart  and  long-fallen  mind 

An  easy  compensation  seem  to  iind. 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array \l, 
ISO  The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade ; 

Processions  form'd  for  pii^ty  and  love, 

A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 

By  sports  like  theses  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd, 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  cliild  ; 
156  Each  nobler  aim,  represt  l)y  long  control. 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soid ; 

While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 

In  happier  mean.iess  occu])y  the  mind. 

As  in  those  domes  where  Ciesars  once  bore  sway, 

13G.  The  ruins  of  one  age  furnish  the  buiKling  materials  foj 
another. 

139.  It  was  the  new  enterprise  of  Prince  Henry  of  Portugal 
and  the  Spanish  sovereigns  that  wrested  the  sceptre  of  commercfl 
from  Venice  anil  othei*  Italian  states. 

143.  Skill  —  knowledge. 

114.  In  the  Citizen  of  the  Worlds  Goldsmitli  says  :  "In  shorli 
the  state  resemhled  one  of  those  bodies  l)loated  with  disease, 
whose  bulk  is  only  a  symptom  of  its  wretchedness.  Their  for- 
Uier  opulence  only  rendered  them  more  impotent." 

159.  See  The  Deserted  Village,  1.  319. 


n 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


51 


Ifw  DofacM  bv  tlino  and  tottcriiii;'  in  decay, 
Tlun^  in  the  ruin,  liccdh'ss  of  the  d»'ad, 
The  Hlii'ltor-stH'kin;;-  peasant  builds  his  shed; 
And,  \vond('rin<^^  man  could  want  the  larger  pile. 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottaj»e  with  a  sniih'. 


IS  foi 


•tugal 
inerc« 


shorii 
sease, 
r  for- 


165      My  soul,  ttirn  from  them  ;  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rou<;her  climes  a  nobler  race  display  ; 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 

uo  But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  liis  sword; 
No  v^ernal  blooms  their  torpid  I'ocks  array. 
But  winter  lin<»ering  chills  the  Lip  of  May ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast. 
But  meteors  glare,  :;nd  stormy  glooms  invest. 

175      Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  s))read  a  cliann, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  riige  disarm. 
Though  poor  the    peasant's    hut,  liis    feasts  thougli 

small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  i)alace  rear  its  head 

J80  To  ijhame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  h)athe  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  aiul  toil. 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

185  Cheerful,  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 
With  patient  angle  troli.j  the  finny  deep. 
Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
184,  Fits  him  [self]  to  the  soil. 


I 


62 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


190  And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  nigiifc  returning,  every  labor  sped, 
He  sits  him  down,  the  nionarcli  of  a  shed ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze  j 

195  While  his  lov'd  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board ; 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thitJier  led. 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 


"t. 


Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  imparl 
m  Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 

And  ev'n  those  hills  that  round  his  mansion  rise 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms : 
205  And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest. 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast. 
So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind's  roar 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 


Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign 'd ; 
ao  Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confin'd. 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due  ; 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few ; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest. 


190.  This  same  use  of  "  savage  "  for  "  savage  beast  "  is  fol« 
lowed  by  Goldsmith  in  the  Citizeii  of  the  Worlds  when  he  says  ! 
"  Drive  the  rehictant  savage  into  the  toils." 

198.  The  nightly  bed,  i.  e.,  ^he  bed  which  each  of  such  pilgrims 
may  have  for  the  niglit.  A  similar  use  appears  in  the  petition, 
**  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread." 

199.  Thus  every  good  [that]  his  native  wilds  impart. 


i 


THE   TRA  VELLER. 


m 


i\ 


5  Whence    from    such   lands   each    pleasing   science 
flies, 

That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  snpplies ; 

Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 

To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 

Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame 
82«  Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame  : 

Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 

Unquench'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire; 

Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  rai)tures  cheer 

On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 
2?5  In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 

Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarstdy  flow ; 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low: 
For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son, 

«30  Unalter'd,  unimprov'd,  the  manners  I'un  ; 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indunited  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

B35  But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultur'd  walks,  and  ch.arni  the 

way,  — 
These,  far  dispers'd,  on  timorous  pinions  fly. 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 


221.  Level,  not  broken  by  variety. 

226.  The  subjunctive  mood  was  more  common  in  Goldsmith's 
day  than  now.     Yet  we  say,  "  Wait  till  I  go." 

232.  The  plural  form  in  "fall"  is  nue  to  the  careful  separa- 
tion of  "  love's  "and  "  friendship's  "  dart ;  i.  e.,  the  dart  of  lova 
and  the  dart  of  friendship. 


64 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reignr, 
U9 1  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleas'd  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  jdeasCi 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  nuirnjuring  Loire  I 
45  Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshen'd  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill, 
Yet  would  the  vill'.ige  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
}50  And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages :  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skillM  in  gestic  lore. 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burthen  of  threescore. 


S55 


2fifl 


•Oil 


So  bit-st  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  displays 
Tims  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here : 
Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land ; 
From  courts,  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise. 
They  please,  are  pleas'd ;  they  give  to  get  esteem^ 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 


243.  For  the  act.ial  basis  of  this  reuiiniscenoe,  see  the  bio 
graphic  sketch. 

265,  266.  This  as  well  as  the  passage  it  sums  up  must  be  taken 
as  an  Englishman's  judgment,  though  that  of  a  ver}'  acute  Eng. 
lishman. 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


65 


270 


J/.) 


But  while  tliis  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 
For  praise  too  dourly  lovVl,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  intei'iial  streno-th  of  tliouiihi : 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  bi-east. 
Hence  osteutation  here,  with  tawdry  art. 
Pants  for  tlie  vulgar  juaise  whi«,'h  fools  impart; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  I'obes  of  frieze  with  cop})er  lace ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer. 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year : 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fjishion  draws^ 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-ap})lause. 


To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosoni'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  ])atient  sons  before  me  stand. 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 

886  And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  ram])ire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow, 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar^ 

.J9II  Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile: 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-})lossom'd  vale. 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  tlie  gliding  sail, 

29.  The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, — 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 


273.  The  origin  of  tawdry,  which  the  dictioiuirj'  will  give,  is 
most  curious. 


56 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


Thus,  while  around  the  vvjive-suhjceted  soil 
Impels  tlic  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 

•M)  And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  fi'om  opulence  that  springs, 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  display'd.     Their  mucli  lov'd  ^vealth  iiL 

parts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts  ; 

m  But,  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear ; 
Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies ; 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys. 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 

310  Here  wretches  seek  dishonorable  graves, 
And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  (conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old  —- 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold  ; 
315  War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow ; 
How  nmch  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 

Fir'd  at  the  sound,  ni}^  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring  : 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 


306.  Rof erring  possibly  to  the  custom  which  permitted  pai> 
ents  to  sell  their  children's  labor  for  a  term  of  years. 

309.  In  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  exactly  the  same  words  re- 
cur :  "  A  nation  once  famous  for  setting  the  world  an  example 
of  freedom  is  now  become  a  land  of  tyrants  and  a  den  of  slaves." 

318.  So  in  the  Citizefi  of  the  World,  in  praise  of  Britain:  "  Yet 
from  the  vernal  softness  of  the  air,  the  verdure  of  the  fields,  the 
transparency   of   the  streams,  and  the  beauty  of   the   womeni 


h 


S( 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


5T 


o2l) 


IHi 


\m\ 


And  brighter  streams  than  t'ani'd  Hydaspes  glide. 

There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 

There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 

Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combin'd : 

Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mmd ! 

Stern  o'er  each  bosom  rcasan  holds  her  state, 

With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 

By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresli  from  Nature's  hand. 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul. 

True  to  imagined  right,  above  contio] ; 

While   even   the    peasant    boasts   these   rights   to 

scan. 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 


ssr) 


■; 


54(1 


Thine,     Freedom,    thine    the   blessings    pictur'd 
here. 
Thine  are  those  chiirms  that  dazzle  and  endear  ; 
Too  blest,  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy  ; 
But,  foster'd  even  by  freedom,  ills  aniioy. 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie ; 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone. 
All  claims  that  l)ind  and  sweeten  life  unknown. 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held. 
Minds  combat  minds,  re])elling  and  repell'd ; 


here  love  might  sport  among'  painted  lawns  an(^  warbling 
groves,  and  carol  upon  gales  wafting  at  once  both  fragrance  an^/ 
hfirmony." 

330.  Mr.  Rolfe  felicitously  calls  attention  to  a  line  in  Tenny- 
son's Locksley  Hall :  — 

*'  Cuiaed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  nature's  rule." 


58 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


MS  Ferments  arise,  imprlsonM  fiictioiis  roar, 
Keprest  aiubition  struggles  rouml  lier  shore ; 
Till,  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stoj),  or  frenzy  fire  thc^  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  decay^ 
a"  As  duty,  love,  and  honor  fail  to  sway, 

Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Ilence  all  obedience  hows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown ; 
355  Till  time  may  come,  when,  stri])t  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil'd  auvl  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarjce  shall  lie, 
3S0  And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonor'd  die. 


Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great : 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  Lid  my  soul  aspire. 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire  ; 
365  And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 

345.  "  It  is  extremely  difficult  to  induce  a  nuud)er  of  free  beings 
to  co-operate  for  their  mutual  benefits  :  every  possible  advantage 
will  necessarily  be  sought,  and  every  attempt  to  procure  it  must 
be  attended  with  a  new  fermentation." —  Citizen  of  the  World. 

357.  Stems,  i.  e.,  families. 

302.  In  the  Preface  to  his  Histon/  of  England,  Goldsmith  agaii) 
says  :  ''  In  the  things  I  have  hitherto  written,  I  have  neither 
allured  the  vanity  of  the  grejit  by  flattery,  nor  satisfied  the  ma- 
lignity of  the  vidgar  by  scandal  ;  but  have  endeavoured  to  get 
ao  houeat  reputation  by  liberal  pursuits." 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


59 


larins, 
fame, 


state, 


liTO 


375 


By  proud  contempt,  or  favor's  fostering  sun, 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure  I 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil. 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil; 
And  all  that  Freedom's  liighest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  propo^tion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  dis])roportion'd  grow, 
Its  double  weidrt  nnist  ruin  all  below. 


Oh,  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 

'ISO  Except  when  fast  ap})roaching  danger  warms : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free ; 

185  Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw. 
Laws  grind  the  ])oor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law  ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillag'd  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home ; 


e  beings 
Ivantagt 
it  must 
World. 

th  again 

neithei 

the  iiia- 

i  to  gQi 


382.  "  It  is  not  yet  decided  in  politics,  whether  the  diminution 
of  kingly  power  in  England  tends  to  increase  the  happiness  or 
freedom  of  the  people.  For  my  own  part,  from  seeing  the  bad 
effects  of  the  tyranny  of  the  great  in  those  republican  states 
that  pretend  to  be  free,  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  our  monarchs 
may  still  be  allowed  to  enjoy  the  power  of  controlling  the  en- 
croachments of  the  great  at  home."  —  I^reface  to  History  oj 
England. 

"  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great  to  diminish  kingly  power  as 
much  as  possible."  —  Vicar  of  Wakefeld. 

386.  "  What  they  may  then  expect  may  be  seen  by  turning  cur 
eyes  to  Holland,  Genoa,  or  Venice,  where  the  laws  govern  the 
poor,  and  the  rich  govern  the  law"  —  Vicar  of  Wakefield^  ch.  six. 


60 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


Feai,  pity,  justice,  iiuligii" ' 'on,  start, 
ffioTear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart; 
Till,  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  Brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour, 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power , 

W3  And  thus  pollnting  honor  in  its  source. 

Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchang  d  for  useless  ore? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 

400  Like  flarrng  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste  , 
Seen  opulence,  her  grandeui'  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train. 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlett3  rose, 
In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 

fi05  Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call. 
The  smiling,  long  frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  tlie  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd. 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forc'd  froui  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 

110  To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
Where  v»'ild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

396.  Gave    [to]    wealth.      Heve,    m     graimnatical    phrdsei 
''wealth"  is  the  indirect,  and  "to  sway,"  etc.,  the  direct  object. 

397.  The  thonght  in  the  passage  which  follows  is  repeated  id 
The  Deserted  Village. 

411.  **  Oh  !  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurrs  the  brave, 

Oswego's  dreiry  shores  shall  be  iny  grave.'* 

Threnodia  Augustalis,  Goldsmith. 

412,  Tliis  pr(»nunciatio!i  is  still  common  in  f^ngland  and  com« 
mends  '^.self  as  more  rotund  and  sor.orous  than  our  sharper 
i^i&g'ara- 


:?-/.'^ 


>  •" 


THE   TRA  VEILER, 


61 


)ur, 


>rce. 
iore, 


■  f 


md, 


;  object, 
eated  ia 


iMITH. 
rid   com* 
sharper 


Even  now,  pcrliajis,  as  tliore  some  pilgrim  strays 
Thro  igh   tangled   forests,   and   through  dangerous 
ways , 

^fj  Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murderous  aim ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise. 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe, 

420  To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go. 

Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine, 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind : 

«K  Why  have  I  stray 'd  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 

«8o  That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure ! 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consigned. 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 

435  The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 

Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel, 

420.  One  of  Dr.  Johnson's  lines. 

427.  "Every  mind  seems  capable  of  entertainingly  a  certain 
qnantity  or  happiness,  which  no  constitntions  can  increase,  no 
circumstances  alter,  and  entirely  independent  on  fortune."  — 
Citizen  of  the  World. 

436.  George  and  Lnke  Dosa  were  two  brothers  who  headed  an 
unsuccessful  revolt  against  the  Hungarian  nobles  at  the  opening 
of  the  sixteenth  century  ;  and  George  (not  Luke)  underwent  the 
torture  of  the  red-hot  iron-crown,  as  a  punishment  for  allowing 


62 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


To  men  reinote  from  i)()vver  l)ut  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  I'aitli,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 

himself  to  be  procliiimed  king  of  Iliiiigjiry,  1513,  by  the  rebei- 
lious  peasants.  —  Soe  liioyraphie  Universelle,  xi.  G04.  The  two 
brothers  belonged  to  one  of  the  native  races  of  Transylvania, 
called  Szecklers  or  Zecklers.  —  Foustkk's  Goldsmith,  i.  395, 
(ed.  1854.) —  Cunningham. 

Robert  Francois  Daniiens  was  put  to  death  with  revolting 
barbarity,  in  the  year  1757,  for  an  attempt  to  assassinate  Louig 
XV. —  Cunningham. 

438.  Dr.  Johnson  wrote  the  last  ten  liiies,  save  line*  433,  4.^0 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA: 


A   BALLAD. 


INTHOnrCTORY    NOTE. 


Onk  of  Goldsmith's  friends  wiis  Tlioinas  Percy,  e«i. 
itor  and  somctinKi  iiiitlior  of  a  famous  book,  '^^Reliquea 
of  Ancient  En^^lish  Poetry."  The  book  is  notabh;  as 
niarkin<;'  a  revival  in  taste,  for  Bishop  Percy  pointed 
out  the  charm  and  rude  beauty  which  lay  in  native, 
spontaneous  poetry,  desi)ised  by  English  readers  as 
havin<2:  nothim*'  in  common  with  what  was  called  elo- 
quent  literature.  But  J5isliop  Percy  did  not  always 
print  the  old  ballads  just  as  he  heard  them  ;  he  could 
not  quite  trust  them  to  people,  and  therefore  touched 
them  up  now  and  then,  or  wrote  parts  to  fill  out,  and 
sometimes  tried  his  hand  at  a  new  one  in  imitation  of 
the  old.  Goldsmith  and  he  had  many  talks  on  bal- 
lads, and  as  a  consequence  Goldsmith  wrote  and  read 
to  him  the  ballad  here  printed.  It  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland  whose  husband 
was  Percy's  patron,  and  in  17G4,  shortly  after  it  was 
written,  it  was  privately  printed,  ''  for  the  anmse- 
<nent "  as  the  title-page  reads,  "  of  the  Countess  of 
Northumberland."  Two  years  later  Goldsmith  intro- 
duced it  into  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  under  the 
title,  "  The  Plermit."  Mr.  Porster,  who  examined  the 
rare  leaflet  containing  the  poem  as  first  printed,  re- 
marks :  *'  It  has  a  value  independent  of  its  rarity,  in 


6^ 


INTRODUCrOHY   NOTK. 


its  ilIuHtratidH  of  (loldsniitirs  liab'it  of  elaboration  and 
painstiikinj;  in  tlir  correction  of  his  verse.  By  com- 
paring it  with  what  was  afterwards  pnblished,  we  per- 
ceive that  even  the  <;entle  openin<^'  line  has  been  an 
afterthought ;  that  four  staiizas  have  been  rewritten  ; 
and  that  the  two  which  ori^^inally  stood  last  luive 
been  removed  altogether.  These,  for  their  simple 
beauty  of  expression,  it  is  worth  while  here  to  pre- 
serve. The  action  of  the  poem  having  closiid  without 
them,  they  were  on  better  consideration  rejected  ;  and 
young  writers  should  meditate  such  lessons.  Posterity 
has  always  too  nuich  upon  its  hands  to  attend  to  what 
is  irrelevant  or  needless ;  and  none  so  well  as  Gold- 
smith seems  to  have  known  that  the  writer  who  would 
hope  to  live  must  iive  by  the  perfection  of  his  style, 
and  by  the  cherished  and  careful  beauty  of  unsuper- 
fluous  writing. 

**  Here  amidst  sylvan  bowers  we  '11  rove, 
From  lawn  to  woodland  stray  ; 
Blest  as  the  songsters  of  the  grove 
And  innocent  as  they. 


**  To  all  that  want,  and  all  that  wail, 
Our  pity  shall  be  given  ; 
And  when  this  life  of  love  shall  fail, 
*  We  '11  love  again  in  heaven.' 


> » 


A  writer  in  the  newspapers  charged  Goldsmith  with 
Having  copied  his  ballad  from  one  of  Percy's,  and  the 
poet,  in  a  letter  to  the  printer  of  the  "  St.  James's 
Gazette,"  answered  the  charge  as  follows : 

"  Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of 
having  taken  a  ballad,  I  published  some  time  ago, 
from  one  ^  by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not  thinls 
•  The  Friar  qf  Orden  Jray, 


of 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE, 


d5 


there  is  any  great  resemblance  b(»tween  the  two  pieces 
in  question.  If  there  be  any,  liis  ballad  is  taken  from 
mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years  ago  ;  and  he 
(as  we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles  at  bestj 
told  me  with  his  usual  good  humor,  the  next  time  1 
saw  him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to  form  the 
fragments  of  Shakespeare  into  a  ballad  of  his  own. 
lie  then  read  me  his  little  Cento,  if  I  may  so  call  it, 
and  I  highly  ai)i)rove{l  it.  Such  petty  anecdotes  as 
these  are  scarcely  worth  printing ;  and,  were  it  not 
for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  correspond- 
ents, the  public  should  never  have  known  that  he 
owes  me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I  am  obliged 
to  his  friendshi])  and  learning  for  communications  of 
a  much  more  important  nature.'* 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA, 

**  Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way, 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

5  "  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread.^ 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go.'* 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
ao  "  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 
15     And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant.,   , 
I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
20  My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I  condemn  ; 

1  L  The  fcaper  which  the  stranger  saw  was  a  will  o'  the  wi«p. 


IS 


wisp. 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA,  ti? 

Tauglit  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them  ; 

-'^  "  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 
A  g-uiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

"  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 
30  All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  Ions'." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends 
His  gentle  accents  fell : 
35     The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends 
And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 
The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor^. 
*b  And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Requir'd  a  master's  care  : 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Receiv'd  the  harmless  pair. 

«5    And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire, 
To  take  their  evenino-  rest. 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 
And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest ; 

31.  '*  The  ruiiiiiii<r  brook,  the  herbs  of  the  field,  can  amply  sat- 
isfy  nature  ;  man  wants  but  little,  nor  that  little  lou^y —TU  Citi- 
zen of  the  World,  Goldsmith. 


68 


to 


55 


VU 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store. 
And  gayly  ])rest  and  smil'd ; 

And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguil'd. 

Around,  '^>  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth ; 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  (^ares  the  Hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  opprest : 
'*  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
*^  Tlie  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 


(i-) "  From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

*'  Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 
»  Are  trifling,  and  decay : 

And  those  who  pilze  the  paltry  thinggj 
More  trifling  stiil  than  they. 

**  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 
A  charm  that  lulls  to  bleep ; 
>■>     A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


i 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA.  69 

"And  love  is  still  {in  err ')tier  sound. 
The  modern  fair-one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
m  To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth !  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said  ; 
But,  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  lovelorn  guest  betray 'd. 

35     Surpris'd,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 
Like  colors  o'er  the  morning  skies^ 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
90  Alternate  spread  alarms  : 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 
A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"And,  ah!  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried ; 
95 "  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

"  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 
Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
100         Companion  of  her  way. 

''  My  father  liv'd  beside  the  Tyne, 
A  wealthy  lord  was  he. 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine  ,r 
He  had  but  only  me. 

80.  That  is,  the  turtle-dove's. 


TO  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

106 "  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 
Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 
Who  prais'd  me  for  im^Mited  charms. 
And  felt,  or  feign 'd,  a  flame. 

"  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
110  With  richest  proffers  strove : 

Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

•*  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  or  power  had  he ; 
io     Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

"  And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 
He  caroU'd  lays  of  love. 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 
i2o  And  music  to  the  grove. 

"  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  heaven  refin'd, 
Could  not  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 


tss  **  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree. 
With  eliarms  inconstant  shine ; 
Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

•'  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 
130  Imjiortunate  and  vain  ; 

And  while  his  passion  toucliM  my  heart, 
I  triumphed  in  his  pain  : 

113.  We  sti]l  spealc  of  a  riding-habit. 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA. 


71 


"  Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 
He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 
1S5     And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 
In  secret,  where  he  died. 


M 


"  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I  '11  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
140  And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

"  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 
I  '11  lay  me  down  ind  die  ; 
'T  was  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did. 
And  so  for  him  will  I." 

t=   -Forbid  it.  Heaven  !  "  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasp'd  her  lo  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide, 
'T  was  Edwin's  self  that  prest. 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 
150  My  charmer,  turn  to  see 

Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restor'd  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  mv  heart. 
And  every  care  resign : 
1^5     And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 
My  life  —  my  all  that 's  mine  ? 

**  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  jmrt. 
We  '11  live  and  love  so  true  : 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
IW  Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


RETALIATION. 


I]STRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


After  Goldsmith's  death  the  lines  entitled  "  Retali- 
ation "  were  published.  They  were  ineomplete,  and 
they  appear  to  have  been  written  at  different  times. 
Indeed  it  was  averred  that  the  poem  as  originally  de- 
signed by  the  poet  came  greatly  to  exceed  his  original 
intention.  But  against  what  was  the  poem  in  retalia- 
tion ?  It  will  be  remembered  that  his  associates  never 
could  quite  reconcile  Goldsmith's  writings,  especially 
his  great  poems,  with  his  awkward,  blundering  ways. 
They  seem  to  have  been  tempted  to  measure  the  poet 
by  the  man,  instead  of  the  man  by  the  poet.  At  any 
rate  they  could  not  resist  trying  their  wit  on  him,  and 
Garrick,  the  great  actor,  in  particular,  was  persistent 
in  his  rather  ill-mannered  treatment  of  Goldsmith, 
and  here  is  an  account  in  Garrick's  handwriting  of  the 
origin  of  the  poem  :  — 

"  As  the  cause  of  writing  the  following  printed 
poem  called  Retaliation,  has  not  yet  been  fully  ex- 
plained, a  person  concerned  in  the  business  begs  leave 
to  give  the  following  just  and  minute  account  of  the 
whole  affair. 

"  At  a  meeting  ^  of  a  company  of  gentlemen,  who 
were  well  known  to  each  other,  jind  diverting  them- 
selves, among  many  other  things,  with  the  peculiar 
oddities  of  Dr.  Goldsmith,  who  never  woidd  allow  a 

*  At  the  St.  James's  Coffee-House  in  St.  James's  Street. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


73 


superior  in  any  art,  from  writing  poetry  down  to  dan- 
cing a  hornpipe,  the  Doctor  with  great  eagerness  in^ 
sisted  upon  trying  his  epigrannnatic  powers  with  Mr, 
Garrick,  and  each  of  them  was  to  write  the  other's 
epitaph.  Mr.  Garrick  immediately  said  that  his  epi- 
taph was  finished,  and  spoke  the  following  distich 
extempore :  — 

Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  call'd  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talk'd  like  poor  Poll. 

Goldsmith,  upon  the  company's  laughing  very  heart- 
ily, grew  very  thoughtful,  and  either  would  not,  or 
could  not,  write  any  thing  at  that  time  ;  however,  he 
went  to  work,  and  some  weeks  after  produced  the 
following  printed  poem  called  Retaliation,  which  has 
been  much  admired,  and  gone  through  several  edi- 
tions. The  publick  in  general  have  been  mistaken  in 
imagining  that  this  poem  was  written  in  anger  by  the 
Doctor;  it  was  just  the  contrary." 

Whoever  reads  the  poem  will  see  that  if  Gold- 
smith set  out  to  pay  u]>  old  scores  he  ended  by  draw- 
ing portraits  which  -vvere  full  of  fine  characterization 
and  noble  lines.  It  belongs  thus  in  the  class  which 
includes  Leigh  Hunt's  ''  Feast  of  the  Poets "  and 
Lowell's  "  A  Fable  f(;r  Critics." 


I 


RETALIATION. 


Of  old,  when  Searron  liis  (•()mi)ain()ns  invited, 
Kacli  guest  brought  his   dish,   and    the  feast  was 

united ; 
If  our  hx  aJljiI  :v.!i]>|ji,e.s  us  with  beef  and  with  fishj 
Let  each  gue  t  hiln^j;  himself,  and  he  brings  the 
best  dish  : 
5  Our   dean    shall   be   venison,  just  fresh  from  the 
plains  ; 
Our   Burke  shall   be  tongue,  with  the  garnish   of 

brains ; 
Our  Will  shall  be  wildfowl,  of  excellent  flavor, 
And    Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  sa- 
vor : 
Our   Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place  shall  ob- 
tain, 
10  And  Douglas  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  ; 
Our  Garrick  's  a  salad  ;  for  in  him  we  see 

1  A  French  comic  writer,  who  died  a  century  or  more  before 
this  poem  was  written. 

3.  The  master  of  the  St.  James's  Coffee-house,  where  Gold- 
smith,  and  the  friends  he  has  characterized  in  this  poem  occa> 
sionally  dined. 

5.  Thomas  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry,  in  Ireland. 

6.  Edmund  Burke. 

7.  William  Burke,  late  secretary  to  General  Conway,  and  mem- 
ber for  Bedwin,  a  kinsman  of  P^dmund. 

8.  Richard  Burke,  a  younger  brother  of  p]dmund. 

9.  Richard  Cumberland,  an  unimportant  man  of  letters. 

10.  John  Douglas,  canon  of  Windsor,  afterward  Bishop  of  Cai> 
lisle,  and  later  still  of  Salisbury. 


RETALIATION. 


75 


was 


Oil,  vinegar^  '/»ugav,  and  saltiiess  agree : 
To  make  out  the  <liiinei,  full  certain  I  am 
That  Ridge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb  ; 

15  That  llickey  's  a  cai)()n,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  11  dinner  so  various   at  suc^h  a  repast, 
Who  'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last? 
Here,  wp^er,  more  wine  !  let  me  sit  while  I  'm  able, 

20  rili  all  my  companions  sink  under  tlie  ta])le ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  1  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,  reunited  to  ea^tL, 
Who  mixt  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wi^u  ^in  with 
mirth : 
25  If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  J  >ubt. 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'eiu  out ; 
Yet  some  have  declar'd,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  slyboots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

•  Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was 
such, 
30  We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blamo  it  too  much ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  hie 

throat 
To  persuade    Tommy   Townshend   to    lend   him  a 
vote  ; 

14.  John  Ridge,  a  memher  of  the  Irish  Br.r. 

15.  Thomas  Hiekey,  an  eminent  att'  iney,  whose  liospitality  and 
good  humor  acquired  him  in  his  club  the  title  of  "  honest  Toia 
Hickey." 

23.  Vide  page  74. 

34.  Thomas  Townshend,  a  member  of  Parliament. 


T6 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


85  Who,  too  aeep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refin« 

And  thoujjfht  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  ot 

(lining  : 
Though  eciuiil  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit  j 
Too  nice  for  a  statesnum,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot  too  cool ;  for  a  diudge  disobedient ; 
40  And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  exj)edient- 
In  short,  't  was  his  fate,  uneniployM  or  in  place,  sir. 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the   good  that 
was  in  't ; 
4.)  The  j)upil  of  impulse,  it  forc'd  him  along. 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong. 
Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam. 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home : 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits?  alas  !  he  had  none  •, 
50  What  was  ^ood  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were 
his  own. 


Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh 
at ; 
Alas  that  such  frolic  shoidd  now  be  so  quiet ! 
W^liat  spirits  were  his !  what  wit  and  what  whim, 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb ; 
55  Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball 
Now  teasiiig  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all  I 
In  short  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old 
Nick ; 

fA.  As  Ilichui'd  Burke  broke  a  loo;  not  long  before,  this  was  oa 
|uke  to  him. 


RETALIATION. 

But,  missing  liis  mirth  and  ngrcciiblo  vein, 
80  As  often  we  wi.ili'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 


w 


Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  P^ngland,  the  mender  of  hearts; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  jis  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are 

»  His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fin(^ ; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out. 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  ;\  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 

70  Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  tlieir  failings  ahme. 
Adopting  Jiis  portraits,  aro  pleasM  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 

^5  Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 


Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
80  The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks : 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  re 

clines : 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fearM  for  my  own  ; 
»  But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector. 
Our  Dodds  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  shall  lec- 
ture ; 

86.  Our  forefathers  had  no  difficulty  in  making  this  line  rhyme 
with  the  previous.     The  Rev.  Dr.  William  Dodd  was  a  fashion- 


78 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


Maoplierson  write  l)()iul)aKt,  and  call  it  a  style; 
Our  Townslieiul  make  specrhos,  and  I  shall  (Compile ; 
New  Landers  and    iJowers  the  Tweed   shall  cross 


over 


80  No  eonntryman  livinc^  their  tricks  to  discover  ; 
Detection  hei*  taper  shall  rpiench  tn  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  th*- 
dark. 


Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 

An  abridi^'inent  of  all  that  was  ])leasant  in  man ; 
ii5  As  an  actor,  confest  without  rival  to  shine  ; 

As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line : 

Yet,  with  talents  lik(»  these,  and  an  excellent  heart 

The  man  had  his  failin<;s,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 
100  And  beplaster'd  with  roniije  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stag(i  he  was  natural,  simple,  affectino^; 

'T  was  only  that  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 

He  turnVl  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day : 
105  Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick. 

He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsiiixn  his  pack ; 

For   he  knew,  when  he    pleas'd,  he  could  whistl' 
them  back. 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came, 
>i'>  And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 

able  preacher,  but  turned  out  to  be  a  scamp.  William  Kenrick 
was  a  bitter  critic  of  Goldsmith,  and  a  lecturer  on  Shakespeare. 

87.  James  Macpherson,  who  persuaded  a  good  many  otherwise 
Rcute  men  that  the  poems  he  wrote  were  the  work  of  an  ancier*. 
bard  named  Ossian. 

89.  Inferior  writers  whose  errors  Dr.  Douglas  had  exposed. 


RETALIATION. 


79 


Till  Ills  rdisli  ^rowii  ciillons,  almost  to  disease, 
Who  j)opp«'i'M  the  hi«;lu'st  was  sure.st  to  ])leaso. 
But  let  us  Ix;  candid,  and  spoak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  ])aid  them  in  kind. 
mYe  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  \V^)0(U'alls  so  [i^rave, 
What  a  conunerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you 


gave ! 


How  did    Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you 

raisM, 
While  he  was  he-RosciusM  and  you  were  beprais'd! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
rioTo  act  as  an  angel,  and  nnx  with  the  skies. 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 
Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with 

love. 
And  Beaunionts  and  Bens  be  Iiis  Kellys  above. 

125     Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  crea 
ture. 

And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature  ; 

He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper. 

Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 

Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser : 
130 1  answer,  No,  no,  for  lie  always  was  wiser. 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 

His  ver>  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 

Perhaps  h<' confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  lionest  ?  Ah,  no ! 
136  Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come,  tell  it,  and  bura 

ye: 
He  was  —  could  he  help  it? — a  special  attorney. 

115.  Dramatists  and  dramatic  critics, 

124.  Beaumont  and  Ben  Jonsoii  stood  just  below  Shakespear© 
Kelly  would  scarcely  be  admitted  to  their  company. 


80 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind. 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 
^40  His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland : 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part. 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering. 
When  they  judg'd  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard 
of  hearing : 
'«i  When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios, 
and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 
By  flattery  unspoiFd 


FOSrSCRIPT. 


HerkL  Whitefoord  reclines,  and  deny  it  who  can, 

Though  he  merrily  liv'd,  he  is  now  a  grave  man : 
50  Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun  ! 

Who  relish'd  a  joke,  and  rejoic'd  in  a  pun ; 

Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere ; 

A  stranger  to  flattery,  a  stranger  to  fear ; 

Who  scatter'd  around  wit  and  humor  at  will ; 
^^  Whose  daily  bon  mots  half  a  column  might  fill : 

A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free: 

A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

146.  Sir  Joshua  was  excessively  deaf  and  obliged  to  use  an  ear 
trumpet. 

147.  Here  Goldsmith  in  his  last  sickness  laid  down  his  pen. 

148.  Tlie  lines  that  follow  were  found  later  and  n  >'^  printed  until 
after  the  fourth  edition  of  the  poem  h?d  been  published.  They 
hppear  to  have  been  a  draft  intended  to  be  worked  in  at  some 
poii^t,  no  one  can  sr4.y  where-  Whitefoord  was  a  wine  merchant 
and  dabster  in  letters. 


RETALIATION, 


n 


What  pity,  alas !  that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  lon<;'  be  to  newspaper  essays  eonfin'd ! 
160  Who  perhaps  to  the  sunnuit  of  science  could  soar, 
^et  content  "  if  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar ; " 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall  confessed  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspaper  witlings  !  ye  pert  scribblnig  folks ! 
165  Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes ; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come. 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb : 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  l)estow  on  his  shrine ; 
170  Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 

Cross  reddhu/s,   sh'ij)  tieics^  and   iiustahes  of  Jte 
iwess. 

Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humor,  I  had  almost  said 

wit ; 
This  debt  to  thy  memory  I  cannot  refuse, 
iY5 "  Thou  best  humor'd  man  with  the  worst  humor'd 


muse. 


?» 


163.  H.  S.  Woodfall  was  editor  of  the  Public  Advertiser. 
171.  Whitefoord  had  freciuently  iudidged  i-he  town  u'ith  bumor- 
CMiS  pieces  under  those  titles  in  the  Public  Advmrtiser, 


■*iiit0immmikmimm'<t' 


A.N  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD 

DOG. 

This  poem  was  printed  first  in  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ** 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  sonj^  ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  lonsr. 

6     In  Islington  there  was  a  man 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  })ray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
10         To  comfort  friends  and  foes  : 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 
When  he  put  on  his  (dothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 
As  many  dogs  there  be, 
ic    Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  dcijree. 


This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  picpie  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  ]n'ivate  ends, 
20         Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

5  The  name  of  this  place,  the  residence  of  the  famous  Tom,  is 
pi-oiiuunced  Iz  lin^tun. 


( 


ON    THE  DEA  TH   OF  A   MAD   DOG.  83 

Aiouiid  from  all  the  neighboring-  streets 

The  wondering  people  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

-'5    riie  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 
To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad. 
They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied ; 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite; 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


"JfSv'V;  •■W««'iM%l*i!(k«4i*<««<»« 


A.N  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER  SEX, 
MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

GooB  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

■j    The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 
And  always  found  her  kind : 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor  — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please 
10         With  manners  wondrous  winning  ; 
And  never  followed  wicked  ways  — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new. 
With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 
16    She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew-- 
But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 
The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her 
•jo         When  she  has  walk'd  before. 


Bot  ijiow  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 
Her  hau4^ers-on  cut  short  all ; 


ON   THF    GLORY  OF  HER  SEX. 


86 


The  doctors  foiiiicl,  when  she  was  dead 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 


I  SEX, 


2.   Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore  ; 

For  Kent-street  well  may  say, 
That  had  she  liv'd  a  twelvemonth  more 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


THE   CLOWN'S  REPLY. 


John  Trott  was  desir'd  by  two  witty  peers 

To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears. 

"  An 't  please  yon,"  qnoth  John,  "  I  'm  not  given  tc 

letters, 
Nor  dare  I  })rctcnd  to  know  more  than  my  betters : 
Ilowe'ev,  from    this   time    I    shall   ne'er  see  your 

graces,  — 
As    I   hope   to   be   sav'd  I  —  without   thinking   on 


asses. 


>» 


i( 


STANZAS  ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBEC. 

Amidst  tlie  clamor  of  exulting  joys, 

Whicli  triumpli  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  Jier  Houl-i)iercing  voice, 

And   quells  the    ra])tures  which  from   pleasures 
start. 

5  O  Wolfe !  to  tliee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe. 

Sighing  we  i)ay,  and  thiidt  e\>n  conquest  dear ; 
Quebec  in  vain  shall  teacli  our  ])reast  to  qIow. 

WJiilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 

Alive  tlie  foe  tliy  dreadful  vigor  fled, 
10      And  saw  thee  fall  witli  joy-pronouncing  eyes : 
Yet  they  shall  know  tliou  conquerest,  thougli  dead! 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 


i,,«f;;*Wift'>»*»<#,»*i'»W**!»i!««J»» 


a  desc^ription  of  an  author's  red 

chambp:r. 

This  is  iiitcn'stin^  ;vs  the  fii-st  form  of  some  verses  which  later 
urere  introdiicod  vvitli  chiuiges  into  The  Desertnil  Village. 

Where  tlie  Ketl  Lk>n,  staring  o'tr  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  straii<;eT  tliat  -an  pay ; 
Where  Calvert's    butt,  and  I^arson's  black    cham- 
pagne, 
Resale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane  ; 

ft  There,  in  a  lonely  room,  frr»m  bailiffs  snng. 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  streteh'd  })eneath  a  rug, 
\  window,  patch'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  sliow'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay  ; 
Th(^  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  ; 

i<  The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread; 
The  royai  ;^ame  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 
The  seasons,  f ram'd  witli  listing,  found  a  place. 
And  brave  prince  William   show'd  his  lampblack 
face. 

15  The  morn  was  cold  ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 
Tlie  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire : 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scor'd. 
And    five    crack'd    teacups    dress'd    the    chimney 

board  ; 
A  nightcap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

20  A  cap  by  night,  —  a  stocking  all  the  day  ! 

14.  William,  Duke  of  Cumberland,  the  hero  of  Culloden,  1765. 


FAIVULIAR  QITOTATIONS  FROM  GOLD- 

SMITir. 


It  Is  iloubtt'ul  if  liny  Kii^lisli  poet,  save  Gray., 
has  been  ([noted  ho  ahnndantly  in  proportion  to  tlie 
amount  lie  lias  written,  as  Goldsinitli.  Almost  every 
stanza  of  Gray's  "  l^^le<;y  "  is  a  familiar  ipiotation,  and 
the  two  poems  "  The  Deserted  Vilhe^e  "  and  ''  Tiie 
Traveller "*  surely  stand  next  in  familiarity.  In  order 
to  show  this  empliati'*nlly,  permission  has  been  ol)- 
tained  from  iVIr.  John  liai'tlett,  compiler  of  that  most 
satisfactory  work  '•'•  Familiar  (J[notations  :  a  (A)lk'('tion 
of  Passat»'es,  Phrases  and  i^o verbs  traced  to  their 
Sources  in  Ancient  and  ModtMii  Literatnre,"  to  re- 
print here  the  pai^es  of  his  b/Ook  covering'  the  ])oems 
contained  in  this  nnnd)er  of  thti  ''  Kiv^erside  Litera- 
ture Series." 


THE  dp:serted  village. 

1  Sweet  Auburn  I  loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 

fc  Tlie  hawtlioru  bush  with  seats  beneath  the  Hliade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 


29  The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  l(n>ks  of  love. 


1765. 


61  111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  aocnniulates,  and  men  decisy; 
Piiiiees  and  lords  lu^i}  flourish,  or  may  fade  : 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breatl?  has  made : 


J 


W  OLIVKlt   GOLDSMITH. 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  tlioir  (rountry's  pride. 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  HU})|)lied. 

*!i    His  best  companions,  innocence  and  bealth ; 
And  his  best  riclies,  ionoiance  oi  wcahh. 

"9  How  blest  is  lu^  who  crowns  in  slwuKs  like  these 
A  youtli  ot"  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  I 

iio  AVliib^  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  ills  prospects  brightcninL''  to  tlie  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

'*ji   Tlie  watcli-doLj's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind 
And  tlie  loud  laugii  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind. 

!4i  A  man  he  was  to  all  the  (lonntry  dear. 
And  passing  rich  witii  forty  j)()unds  a  year. 

ij7  Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  shew'd  how  fields  were  won, 

ic!  Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 
Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side. 


11)7   And  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  rei)rov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

iT9  Truth  from  liis  lips  ])revaird  with  double  sway, 
4nd  fools,  vdio  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 

i«{  Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 


FA  MIL  FA  J!   QUO  TA  TIONS. 


91 


189  As  some  tall  clilV  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Tiioiigh  round  its  breast  the  roUinj^  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

m  Well  had  the  hodinj;-  tremblers  learnM  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  mornin«»;  face  ; 
Full  well  they  lauj^liM,  with  counterfeited  /^lee, 
At  all  his  iokes,  tor  ma.ny  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whis|)(>r,  circliuL;*  round, 
Conve>  "d  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  auL;ht, 
The  love  he  bore  io  Icarninii;  was  in  fault, 
'['he  village  all  declarM  how  nmch  he  knew  ; 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too. 

211   In  arguino',  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 

For  even  though  vaiupiish'd  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  aroiuul ; 
And  still  they  ga/'d,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

22;5  Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 

'227  The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  <'lick'(l  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  }>ay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day. 


2.'{2  The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose. 


25."  To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

26a  And  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  ask  \i  this  be  ioy. 


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OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


32«  Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adora, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  jjeeps  beiieatli  the  thorn. 

a43  Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go. 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  wot . 


TS3  In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

^85  O  Luxury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree ! 

«>  Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  kee})'st  me  so. 


- 

THE  TRAVELLER. 

1  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow,  — 

Or  by  the  la/y  S<'heldt,  or  wandering  Po. 

7  Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 

My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 

Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain. 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

«i  And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

90  Some  fleeting  good,  that  m(»cks  me  with  the  view. 

4a  These  little  things  are  great  to  little  mano 

so  Creation's  heir,  the  world  —  the  world  is  mine  I 

rs  Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam ; 

His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 

w  Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  fails, 

And  honor  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 

FAMILIAR  QUOTATIONS. 
J28  Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 

137  The  canvas  glow'd  beyond  ev'n  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  forme 

ifis  By  sports  like  tliese  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child. 

172  But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May. 

ifl.5  Cheerful,  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose. 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes. 

207  So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind's  roar 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

a^  Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore. 
Has  frisk 'd  beneath  the  burthen  of  threescore. 


93 


sfis  They  please,  are  pleas'd ;  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

2R2  Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies, 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land. 

327  Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by. 

356  The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms. 

sn  For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil. 

That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toiL 

386  Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law. 


94 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


♦x)  Forc'd  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  heyond  the  western  main  ; 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around]) 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound. 

m  Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 

30  Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel 


RETALIATION. 


n  Our  Garrick  's  a  salad  ;  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  ! 

24  Who   mixt   reason   with   jjleasure,  and   wisdom   with 
mirth : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt. 

31  Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though   fraught  with  all   learning,  yet  straining   his 

throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing  while  they  thought  of  din* 

ing: 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit. 

46  His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong. 

63  A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 

To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 

«e  Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  isxasx. 


FAMILIAR   QUOTATIONS.  96 

»(i  As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line. 

]oi  On  tlie  stage  lie  was  natural,  sin]])lp,  affectinp^ ; 
'T  was  only  that  when  he  was  oft'  he  was  acting. 

107  He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  ])ack  ; 

For  he  knew,  when  he  pleas'd,  he  could  whistle  them 
back. 

112  Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please, 

iir>  When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and 
stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 


rith 


POSTSORII^. 

175  "Thou  best  humor'd  man,    with  the   worst  humor*d 
Muse." 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
w       To  comfort  friends  and  foes  : 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  founds 
As  many  dogs  there  be, 
15    Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  houndj 
And  curs  of  low  degree. 

The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 
ao       Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite  5 
The  dog  it  was  that  died 


|i)  4 


96 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH, 


AN  ELEGY  ON  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

1  Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  king  himself  has  f oUow'd  her  -^ 
ao       When  she  has  walk*d  before. 


i>ESCRIPTION  OF  AN  AUTHOR'S  BED-CHAMBER 

A  nightcap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
20    A  cap  by  night,  —  a  stocking  all  the  day  I 


613aa3cy 


242 


BEB 


